At the edge of childhood
and edge of wood,
I have not found God
in his usual place.
In spired cathedrals
with their waxed benches and bound hymns,
the Irish priest casts heavy lines
that boom from the pulpit and fall
on my heart
without a hint of song.
He says, “be with you”
I hear “bewitch you.”
God is gone from here.
Lying on a mossy bed
dreaming of ancestral voices,
I mistake the old caretaker’s steps
for those of my father’s.
“It’s only me,” he reassures.
“They’ve all gone off to the pub.”
I am too young to slip there unnoticed
to hear the tales and melodies
of those battered by drink
but delivered from sin,
dancing the jig of grace.
The caretaker hands me
a child-sized spade
and points to the yard
at the back of the house.
“There’s treasure in there,
cross my old heart,
but you’ll be wantin’ to dig real deep.”
Ellen Rowland writes poetry and creative non-fiction and is the author of Everything I Thought I Knew, a collection of essays about living, learning, and parenting outside the status quo. She and her family live off the grid on a tiny island in Greece.