Fire heart of Patrick made the
old priests angry by his sign
of rebellion against older ways.
Moon fire, sun fire, Pat's fire
changing generations of those
who watched and waited into
holy saints, winding their way
to small huts, to coracles,
crossing seas in fierce faith.
Miles from the Hill of Slane,
but in Christmas-tide, not
the bright day of Resurrection,
on a night of wandering thoughts,
an Irish moon, huge, orange took
the sky by the horns and grappled
for attention over the starry forms,
gracing the edges of trees. St. Pat's
challenge created fire out of the faith,
like this moon, this giant overseer of
land and green hills. Thirty months
passed, leaving petals dried in bowls,
while the sun, this evening, stood over
the rolling hills of black cattle and doe
as graceful as lace on the tablecloth.
Orange sun, ball of fire, finally giving in
to the small forest of oak and maple,
trees planted by farmers who wanted
privacy, but this sun cries out for
attention, searing the eyes, then
sightly fading into a distant flame
now a memory, like Patrick's fire,
like my moon over County Meath
in January, in a world older than
these glacial hills, which barely felt
the footsteps of men, and more of
beast, wild and domestic, together
ignoring each other as they eat the
new grass under the sinking red
sphere, oblivious to my humanity.