When Birds Were Saints on Cruachán Aigli
The eagles have gone by way of the west
in the rush of the sea and birds flit stir
occasionally landing on the stack’s steep crown
where pilgrims yearly climb in adoration
And here the fog caught me in its deep wakeful sleep
closed in around me like the clouds of heaven
from some children’s story of golden streets
and pillowy white avenues of cotton but
not before I caught a glimpse of the eagle
its shadowy image on the pallet of white
flying overhead calling out the magi’s names
the ones who had disappeared with the Cross
A skeptic myself I squatted in the fog
and drank from a plastic hipflask of clear water
not blessed or even drawn from a holy Celtic well
but carried up hours of rough track to the summit
drank and refreshed myself in the white silence
close to the sky but without a clear view
and I heard the magi call and the anchors
of the earth drag along through the lost names
as through all the gods were gathering again
on the eagle’s strong wings
Osiris Poetry 