I’ve been fortunate enough in my life to visit some beautiful places, many of which are but a short journey from my home. My first visit to Glendalough, the ‘monastic city’ (in truth a collection of small religious buildings dating back to the 12th century) in County Wicklow in Ireland, was almost missed off the itinerary. Hoping to visit the place on the way to the seaside town of Bray, the rain was incessant and a perceived damp poke around a few old buildings was given a swerve. Having read about the place many years ago, we travelled back the same way from Bray and someone up there smiled on us as we caught the late evening sunshine. The information centre and the toilets were closed but we were treated to a tourist-free visit of this peaceful spot. I didn’t know too much about St Kevin (Caoimhin, in Irish) but a second visit a couple of years later (at roughly the same time of evening) inspired me to write a poem about this wonderful place. Coming back after a first visit (just like St Kevin did), I understood why he spent the rest of his life here.

Research also led me to find Seamus Heaney’s poem, St Kevin and the Blackbird which, for me, fitted well with what I wanted to write.

A SOFT EVENING AT GLENDALOUGH

Second-hand rain drops from the leaf cover

Where, warmed through by the breaching sunlight

And again by the tarmac path, it rises once more.

A blackbird joyful at the cessation of rain

Tells the story passed down through the ages

Of Kevin, their patient saint, who allowed a nest

To be created and used in his cupped hand.

It is but a story…maybe just for the birds?

Kevin remembered this deep valley

Embraced by the Camaderry mountain

And came again, seeking serenity

And a commune with nature

Here, hemmed in by the humped horizon,

Two rivers meet under lowering, sullen skies.

Creamy elderflowers mob together in protest

Against the incessant green-ness of Glendalough.

A crop of Celtic crosses sway in the soft breeze.

Around an evolutionary timeline of religious houses

From where Jackdaws ‘chuck’ their greetings at us.

Yew trees claw the air like leprous fingers

On these gloved green hands of Leinster

Foxgloves are in alignment with the round tower

A stone rocket heaven-bound amid the gravestones

Toppled and splayed like petrified explosions

Clamouring around the blast radius

Then paintballed with bone-white lichen.

Remnants of the evening’s sunshine

Illuminate the distant valleys. And we see

On the periphery…better times…paradise?

Offering a promise of light in the distance

The eternal life cycle played out

Whether by Kevin’s outstretched arm

Or our witnessing the to-ing and fro-ing

Of a Pied Wagtail feeding its young one.

©graylightfoot