Tended light lay every day
that summer enveloping
apple trees, bell-like fuschias,
the low slope of an incline
five miles south of Kinsale.
Where in a tangle of spruce,
pine, sycamore, beside
a thick swivel of lilac
and a sign pointing to Cork
a statue of the Virgin stood
back from a balustrade,
the crown of her head haloed
with small electric bulbs
while blue concrete letters
under her feet spelled out
I am the Immaculate Conception.
While the familiar news
of guns in moonless darkness
and snipers at dawn
was upstaged by the story
of a woman who stopped
by a grotto in Ballinspittle
and saw a statue move.
It was a warm summer
The days starved of rain
Soon it would be harvest
time to save the hay,
holiday makers watching
train windows filling
with the crop laid in swatches,
left to dry for hours as
the light grew less.
Meanwhile the Blessed Virgin
in her accustomed place
harvested the longing
seen on warm evenings
in every upturned face
as the radio brought news
of wonders and illusions:
the Virgin’s hands unfolding,
an entire statue rising
an inch above its pedestal
while a whole town abandoned
its fields and supper tables,
its nights of cow bingo,
the roads clogged with cars.
New visitors learning
directions to the grotto:
a countryside perfecting
its discipline of yearning.
Then the season changed.
Upstairs in my room,
the Dublin hills hidden,
I took down my notebook—
your eyes shall be opened—
and left the page unwritten.
Early twilights rested
on the incline to the west.
October dawns flamed:
a sword in the east.
By every news report
the Virgin’s hands were still.
No movement. Not a gesture.