How long was she out there. An era, floating

in a cortege of unhelpful sea life,

in the imagination of a culture

with a fetish for suffering,

condensed to a bright concentrate

like the picture on an old tube television,

stove inside her, bulb on a cord.

Were she extinguished, it would glow

a little while, not long.

*

Accounts, though varied, say she cried,

prayed, maybe she sang, no one knows

but the double tides at Culross

that brought her ashore. A quirk

of local topography, not the miracle

ascribed to her child, Kentigern,

born on the north beach and discovered by —

with their usual flair

for being at the right place

at the right time —

shepherds, who fetched the monk

Servanus, from whom Kentigern acquired

the pet name Mungo — or, Dear One —

and a leadership role in the militia of Christ.

*

Thaney, burning from her passage

through the semblance

acquired the density of something

about to be lost.

KENTIGERN AND THE ROBIN

A fine day to be cruel. Sunny, with a breeze

to carry their laughter’s smoke

across the cloister.

The rot budding at the core of their energies they’d diagnosed

as Servanus’ fondness for Kentigern,

who’d washed up on the beach at Culross

like trash in the barrel of his mother

to steal the affection entitled them.

Hatred is a plotting emotion

and gleefully inclusive. Also irksome

the more they discussed it, Servanus’ love

for his pet robin, a stupid thing so trusting

it would eat from his hand.

Killing it was a way to toss

their disappointment off an overpass

without dying. To give up, using another’s life.

To blame the bastard killed three birds in one.

A person can’t just do nothing.

Into the broken little body Kentigern poured a scant ounce of his spirit.

Into the vacuum left behind rolled a pebble from the afterworld.

I thought as much, Servanus said

and summoned the novitiates: See, this boy is above you.

To him, the standard does not apply.

Through this address, the robin sang.

Through prayers, chores, classes, meals,

through late mass and into the night

it sang to young men with their heads in their hands,

to the knowledge of what they’d done with their ability to do so.

Unwound its voice like a rope into the place it had been

where all communication is one-way.

But a part of it wouldn’t be called back.

The robin never flew again,

bound as it was to Kentigern by its debt.

TO THE EXTENT A TRADITION CAN BE SAID TO BE DEVELOPED; IT IS MORE ACCURATE TO SAY IT CAN BE CLOTHED IN DIFFERENT FORMS

As three persons in one, I come to this life:

the one in it, the one beside it, the one far away.

As one also are my three enemies, and the effects

of meds taken at mealtimes.

A stable mind wants vigil, prayer, and labour.

A three-legged table fits nicely in its corner