Poetry
Where the veil wears thin.
Verse that captures the sensory and the spiritual. From the landscape of Ireland to the internal weather of the soul, these poems offer a language for what is felt but not always spoken.
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Storm. Shelter. Morning. Guarded by Otto
The wind is roaring through the dark,and rain beats on the pane;yet here my bed is warm and still,a refuge from the rain.With Otto resting in my hand,I breathe in soft and slow;while storms go wandering where they will,I’m held in gentle glow.The shadows dance upon the wall,The world is tucked away;Young Otto guards the… Continue reading
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A Map for the Journey: Navigating our New Menu
A new map for the journey: our updated menu offers clear pathways through the hymns, poems, and reflections that shape this neurodivergent and contemplative space. Continue reading
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Gone Home Alfred
The Quiet Legacy of a Scouter Today, we honor Alfred Reoch MBE. To those who knew him, Alfred was the embodiment of what it means to serve. In a world that often demands self-promotion, he chose a different path: the slow, faithful work of being present. Living in Gibraltar, you realize that Scouting is a… Continue reading
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“At Evening, God Has Spoken”: A Vespers Hymn on Psalm 110 (76 76 D)
110 has long been one of the traditional psalms of Sunday Vespers. My new hymn, At Evening, God Has Spoken, reflects on that ancient text through the quiet landscapes of the Irish midlands—heathered hills, the Barrow’s waters, and the stillness of evening prayer—resting in Christ our High King through the night. Continue reading
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Braided Grace—A Hymn on Psalm 129 – “Long have burdens pressed upon us” (87 87 D)
Despite suffering and oppression, God’s enduring faithfulness and promise bring hope, resilience, and strength to His people. Continue reading
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One Faith, One Hope, One Lord: A Hymn for Unity
The hymn prayerfully calls for unity in the Church, invoking the Holy Spirit to heal divisions and reaffirm faith in Christ. Continue reading
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The Rafters and the Harbour
The poem I share below about travelling into NHQ isn’t really about trains or coffee or even comms work. It’s about return. There was a time when my work with St John Ambulance Ireland was my paid role—front-line, though not uniformed, serving within National Headquarters. Kidney failure changed that. Dialysis made that life impossible. Now… Continue reading
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The muted blue
I found myself shaping these lines in the crisp hush of early frost, walking toward the station as the birds lifted their chorus into the pale blue morning. The early frost along the lane,The breath that clouds the morning air;The jays cry out their sharp refrain,And rooks rise ragged from their lair.Blue tits dart quick… Continue reading
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Pancakes made the quiet way
Pancakes Made the Quiet Way is a gentle celebration of ordinary ritual—the kind of small, steady act that steadies the soul as much as it feeds the body. In simple measures and unhurried movements, the poem lingers over flour falling, batter smoothing, and pancakes turning in the pan, finding in each step a quiet grace.… Continue reading
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The hum of lines
I wrote a poem this week called The Hum of Lines. It is not a bright poem. It sits in the quiet room. It listens to the machine. It hears the slow, steady movement of blood through borrowed pathways. Dialysis has a soundscape. The hum of the pump. The soft alarms. The rhythm that is… Continue reading
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Otto. Lancelot. Allen.
There are nights when sleep needs a little help, when the dark feels louder and the mind slower to settle. So Otto, Lancelot, and tiny Allen take their places—not as toys, but as anchors. Softness becomes structure; familiarity becomes safety. For some of us, comfort is architecture. And sometimes resilience is simply three small guardians… Continue reading
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Writing in the Small Hours
This poem was written in real time, in the small hours of the night—not at a desk prepared for “creative work,” but wrapped in a teal blanket, slightly breathless from the stairs, listening to the cats settle at my feet. There is a particular honesty to writing at 3am. The house is quiet. The nervous… Continue reading
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A Quiet House, A Returning Train
Today I found myself writing two small Common Metre poems—companions to one another. Andrew was in Dublin for a course, and the house felt different in his absence. Not lonely exactly. Just altered. Softer around the edges. The Sunday light lay still. The cats took up their posts. The kettle hummed. Pancakes became a small,… Continue reading
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Across the Barrow Viaduct—Writing Between Water and Iron
This evening I found myself standing between layers of movement. The river flowing dark and slow. The canal holding the last of the light. And high above, the long stone ribs of the Barrow Viaduct carrying a train across the fading sky. Across the Barrow Viaduct grew out of that layered stillness. The engine in… Continue reading
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God’s Whiskered Rogues
This hymn was born from a passing glimpse on Facebook—a brief mention of otters warming St Kevin as he stood in the icy waters of Glendalough. The image lingered. It was easy to picture the bold little creatures of the river: curious, bright-eyed, unafraid. Not solemn attendants, but playful companions. Not tame, but gloriously themselves.… Continue reading
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Rule. Dawn. Praise.
This hymn and stained-glass image are inspired by Chapter 13 of the Rule of Our Holy Father Saint Benedict, in which he sets forth the reverent ordering of the Divine Office at Lauds on ordinary days. Rooted in the rhythm of psalmody, canticle, Gospel praise, and litany, the work reflects Saint Benedict’s vision of a… Continue reading
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Andrew, this is you.
Some love stories are written in grand gestures. Ours has been written in endurance. This Valentine’s Day, I honour fifteen years of partnership with Andrew—and ten years of civil marriage later this year—not because the dates fall now, but because love that has lived this much deserves to be named whenever the heart nudges. Our… Continue reading
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Stop. Start. Stay.
Not every journey is straight. Some of us live by detours. Some of us measure time in appointments, recoveries, resets, and the quiet courage it takes to begin again. This new hymn was written from within that kind of landscape. It blesses the roundabout and the restart. The traffic light on a rain-washed street when… Continue reading
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Incense. Whisper. Hope.
This hymn is inspired by Psalm 141, the Church’s ancient evening prayer: “Let my prayer rise before you like incense.” Set in the landscape of Clonmacnoise, it joins the psalmist’s cry to the Shannon’s air and the long vigil of those who prayed on these stones before us. As night gathers, it asks Christ to… Continue reading
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Night Watch
On nights when my husband is not well, our cats call me to keep watch. This image and poem honour NeuroDivine care—where animals serve as sentinels, attention becomes prayer, and love stands vigil in quiet hours. Night Watch The house lies still in shadowed hush,yet soft paws stir the air;the cats come whispering through the… Continue reading
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