Irish forests deep, fern-lined path I walk,
Elevated in faith, my feet touch not earthly
Ground, my steps following Holy Mother
Mary in my spiritual life, experiences rarely
Shared, written about, except as secret
Verses, penned in prayerful solitude,
Still waters, shimmering light, open oaken
Glade. Here, I bathe, naked body and soul
Exposed, mortal woman, sister of the faith,
I speak not my name, for I am nothing,
Prostrate servant of the Lord.
What woven spell consumes me? My faith,
Holy scriptures, sacraments, all things
Divine, I give myself to those in need:
Hungry, sick, souls lost to abject poverty.
Serving them is sweetest call, equal to
Sun-alighted birds, summoning heart and
Feet, greater truth, yearning, my step falters
Not, life’s arduous pathway. Has all been
Mirth-filled joys? Sadly, not. Some days,
Inches from despair, defeat, I persevere,
When weary voices beckon, “Sister Muriel.”
Feet placed upon fern-lined path, I return
To pain and sorrows, through my faith and
Acts, I cast Christian light, brighter-breaking
Irish morn, safer night, no shadows looming,
Doubts or fears. Most perils are man-made,
Strife over land, power, greed, armies raised,
Flag waving high, hundreds die. There is no
End to God’s work, through me, others seeking
Greater kingdom, healing sick, herbal teas,
Sick and dead. When downfallen ask for me,
By Holy Mother Mary, I come to them.
Amongst forest ferns, new Sister Muriel poem.
For more on Sister Muriel as poetic character, see this link.
Thanks for reading.