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At Roscommon Abbey
For Cait and Michael
by Kay Kidde
Here it is.
Just around the corner of the hedge,
A church in ruins rises, monumental, up
Proclaiming ancient Ireland, out here in this sun today.
A close companion by the northern wall, a yew tree climbs.
Monks worshipped seven hundred years ago
Within these soft gray broken stones.
A dure life surely, paining cold in winter.
Below the choir lie the bones
Of the last high King of Connacht,
Founder of the Abbey.
An effigy in stone portrays him.
HIs left arm folds across his chest,
His face gone blank.
His body is draped long, extends to where
His feet are cradled by his little dog.
Beneath him on the slab, seven dwarflike men in mail
Stand guard, swords drawn, at the ready.
Above the King a single branch of leaves in stone
Grows the wall.
The grand arched window of the West facade is air.
A long green span away, the regal window of the East facade
Is space, white clouds on blue.
The floor is summer grass,
The roof, most of the nave, are sky.
This King is facing the East.
All this openness
Has left more room here for his God.