Overlooking the ancient site of the holy monastery, dwells the fields now filled with corn. Once filled with learning and quills, creating art and scripture written down by men of God. Holy scribes, who toiled the soil and sang of the divine Jesus. The air here is thin, on a luddymore morning you can feel their presence and spirit.
Michael Cochrane © 2023
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I've just come back from Ireland and after visiting the medieval monastery of Clonmacnoise I share the sentiments expressed in your poem. Great work.
Clonmacnoise looks very interesting indeed
Dear David, many thanks for your comments, yes we can experience such moments the celts often speak of such places. Iona in Scotland is such a place. Take care of yourself God bless.