by Peter Gallaher
Between two lakes St. Kevin's small church stands
Nearby he lived, in a tree, in a cave,
And stood still so long birds lived in his hands;
He, lost in prayer, by the edge of the lake.
Cattle pastured in the meadows he walked.
Their milk was sweet, thick with yellow cream.
Was it simply that he was there? They talked
Among themselves who lived near Kevin's stream,
“Wisha, isn't he always with bright Christ,
Patrick and the holy twelve and each one
A gift of grace on us all day and night?
What wonder milk is thick with sweetness then.
Isn't it the way of heaven for us here
The soft open hand of generosity,
The kind word in the songs of birds and trees,
Above the hills the smiling Trinity.”
