Where monks walked a thousand years before, I stand. Lost in the baptism of the sky, I wait and wander. I kneel on padded rocks centuries moved and unmoving, disturbing nothing and no one but a solitary bee from his under-tree shelter. The trees and rocks are shrouded in green. I speak to long-dead monks and hear their answers in the moss and in the rain.
Flailing in helplessness, drops of rain move to resignation before landing with a finger tap on the thick cushions of lichen, which wait and catch and wait again. In this deluge of holy water from whence I dare not hide my head, the air smells green, the green of life, an Ireland green. It slips quietly into my nostrils, a fragrance for my God. I drink of the holy well; its moisture sounds in my spirit like the voice of Finnbarr: “Holy . . . holy . . . holy.”