NeuroDivine

The dawn lays pale upon the road,
a quiet, cloistered light;
and every bird begins its psalm
to wake the chapel’d night.

The robin gives its ember‑call,
a small, obedient flame;
the wren threads through the hedge a chant
that whispers God’s own name.

The great tit rings its bright response,
a clear, bell‑toned refrain;
it sounds like morning’s antiphon
across the dewy lane.

The song thrush lifts its patterned hymn,
each phrase a crafted prayer;
it shapes the office measure‑true
and steadies all the air.

The goldcrest lifts its Eucharist—
a wafer‑gleam so slight;
it hovers like the Host at Prime,
the day’s first blessed light.

The jackdaws turn in sable arcs,
a penitential round;
the starlings murmur on the wires,
a low monastic sound.

The blackbird pours its mellow hymn
as from a stone‑cold choir;
the wood‑pigeon’s slow‑breathing coo
moves like a waking fire.

The collared‑doves in gentle pairs
shape soft responsories;
and still the river’s ducks lie still,
kept in their dreaming peace.

So through this office, step by step,
I walk the waking mile;
the goldcrest’s Host‑light leads the day
into God’s listening smile.

Reflection

Heading north toward Belfast, this road carries the weight of older journeys—echoes of the drives taken when my father was dying, when every mile felt suspended between grief and love. Leaving Kildare today, the Monasterevin avian choir feels like a traveling liturgy alongside that memory. The robin’s ember-call and the thrush’s patterned prayer do not fade with distance; their morning Lauds bridge past longings with present peace, turning the familiar highway into a sanctuary and praying me forward along the waking road.