Was the monastery building,
the hand chiseling of each stair, a body
torture?

Was it joy to carve two thousand
three hundred steps from sandstone to reach
the pinnacle of the Skellig?

Did the forced quarantine by Atlantic’s
turbulent exposure impose indefinite
isolation,
bravery, silent endurance?

And was it soul-stirring to witness
the massive power of ocean
surge, the unyielding persistence of Skellig rock?

Did the monotony of circling, wailing
sea birds dull the senses, quell desire to
raise the heart in prayer?

And was the Divine Word in every soaring
bird, every fledgling flutter?