Ben Bulbin Poem by Bernard Kennedy

From the door of Holy Hill at Screen,
Looking down it looks to me
like Ayers rock. Its sacredness.
Majesty, mystery, munificence.
beneath- its history and imaginings like
the local narratives unconscious.
Like Sinai? Nearby at Drumcliffe lies Yeats,
a Moses of a tablet word, a poetic commandment.
Romantic longing, celtic past and words
that 'did they sent out'?
Words of Seanachai take root.
On Ararat,
I was told by a guide in ancient Van,
the Ark is held.
Desire to save and be saved-
the word achieve its ambition.
Like the blind man,
we are led in trust by the saviours hand,
I lift up my eyes.