NeuroDivine

From Belfast’s pride‑lit, singing streets
I wander home again;
Yet still the colours shimmer on
Like saints beside the glen.

In Kildare’s chapel, organ‑bright,
The Sunday light grows thin;
Each chord becomes a doorway where
The unseen world steps in.

For Clonmacnoise, though calling soft,
Must wait another day;
Its towers breathe ancient holiness
But never fade away.

And through the reeds of Shannon’s bend
Where mortal waters gleam,
The thin place stirs — a trembling hush,
A ripple in the stream.

Saint Ciarán’s otters rise in light
Where worlds fold into one;
They slip between the veils of time
Like moonpaths on the run.

They travel from the sacred stones
With paws that glow like fire;
They cross the miles in mystic leaps
To guard my heart’s desire.

They reach my door with solemn glee,
They circle, squeak, and sway;
“Stay home,” they say, “the holy place
Will wait another day.”

“The river keeps its ancient watch,
The towers hold their grace;
And sure, you walked those very stones
Just last week’s pilgrim trace.”

So home I stay, while otters weave
Their blessings through the air;
They keep the thin place close at hand
Within my Kildare prayer.

For sacred paths are patient things—
They know when strength is small;
And otters, wise in hidden ways,
Will guide me through it all.

A note on the poem

In Celtic tradition, the line between the sacred and the everyday is famously thin—a gentle reminder that peace isn’t only found at the end of a long journey, but right where we are.

When a Fr Philip McKinley playfully warned me that Saint Ciarán might “set his otters on me” for deciding to stay home from the Clonmacnoise service, I couldn’t help but picture his legendary companions a little differently. In my own mind and music, Ciarán’s otters have long been gentle, familiar presence.

So, instead of divine pursuers, they became messengers of grace. This poem is a celebration of knowing your limits, honouring the quiet strength of rest, and letting the sacred find its way to your front door.