May 2001

Behind the postcard of the St. Columcille window
I keep in a chintzy frame, memory holds
salty air, highland cows, sheep in rocky pastures—

our two-day visit only long enough
to gather these clichés—

hiking, and sight-seeing
in gift shops and among ruins;
gathering sea-smoothed stones
and snapshots along the shore;
watching children and sea birds play,
the boats and the waves coming in,
going out; savoring simple meals 
of brown bread with puréed soup.

At night, we joined in the habit of turning towards prayer
as dusk’s sudden onset chased us through fields,
jumping over stiles, feet dodging sheep shit
as we rushed to receive the Sacrament.

There, the same brown bread we relished at dinner
became for us the Body of Christ,
hearty and earthy food indeed.
Crumbs floated in the cup,
the comingling of the elements reflected
in the conflation of tourist and pilgrim,
of the mundane and the extraordinary,
strangers gathered like stones
of an ancient abbey restored.