A year into slavery—herding sheep
at the foot of Slieve Mish’s volcanic
plug—he’s already learned how dams will keep
silent when in pain, how lambs voice panic
in bleats like shrill hacks. Kneeling in the field
to pray, he picks a shamrock, studies three
linked leaves, senses something deeper’s revealed
within its shape. In five years, he’ll break free,
wander his way back to his family
in Cumbria.
But for now, he’s no clue
of how legends will surround his saintly
life, his walking stick, his cross pattée. Who
could tell him he’ll return one day, a priest,
then bishop, that this day will be his feast?
Roger Armbrust
March 17, 2013
