Ode to John O'Donohue

Pilgrimage of tearful softened heart lures us three to this lonely seaside graveyard. Bog’s oak standing guard over the Bard’s tomb, his soul’s currack floating on bowl bent clouds hovering the blue still sea of Fanore Burren. Ravens in the rookery give announcement. Cows in abandonment moan in mourner’s wailing. Indeed this grave here rests Ireland’s too young lost voice— of spirituality he mystically found birthed in the Connemara primordial landscape eons steeped into the life of the rustic Gaelic being. Ancient church torched of Cromwell’s hell still in defiance sings spectral Mass from choirs of plots marked only by heaven’s rough stones, lying near the artist of the soul weaver of words, who offers his blessing to the sweet liturgy. Harp need pulled to hear not this day, for wispy breeze through sun shocked fields of glistening limestone give angelic muse to the Bard’s lusciousness. He who is nestled in the bosom of Mother Earth’s deepened green bed, he of the virgin soul of gods knew first favored love, did know of visions verse we can only ached to glimpse. Our grief is burdened from his silent voice—we too stare death’s fetching….reminding us all we are mere dust; save for the song filled day our heart leapt in hope filled rhythm fluttered by the Bard’s dream, for that day we too would feel the veil thin in which we sojourn.