PoetryOfPlace
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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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A Hymn of Soil, Saint, and Sacrament – “Here the fields of Erin whisper” (87 87 D)
This hymn celebrates Christ’s presence in creation, uniting diverse traditions in peace and reconciliation through Eucharistic imagery and Celtic spirituality. Continue reading
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A small sweet mercy
This morning was a Tuesday free from the humming dialysis lines—the chest-port resting, the machine silent for a day. I travelled up to Dublin, but by evening the journey had taken its quiet toll. The poem grew out of that very ordinary kind of tiredness: the moment when even cooking feels like too much, the… 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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Ritual of the evening tea
There are grand liturgies in cathedrals, and there are quieter ones at kitchen tables. Ritual of the Evening Tea was written out of that smaller sanctuary—the hum of the kettle, the red box of Thompson’s on the counter, the amber pour into a waiting cup. In the simple making of tea, I find steadiness, warmth,… 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 star that keeps watch
A lone star high up in the skyBeams brightly through the cold,Its shimmer threading winter’s darkWith stories yet untold.From here inside the quiet house,Where stillness warms the air,We watch it through the windowpane—A small, steadfast prayer.The only sound that stirs the hushIs soft and low and whole:Two kitties sharing, side by side,The murmuring of one… 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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Singing Psalm 98 in an Irish Key
“Sing to the Lord a new song…” Psalm 98 is not shy. It is tidal. It calls rivers to clap their hands and hills to sing for joy. It insists that creation itself is caught up in praise—not as backdrop, but as choir. In the Anglican tradition, Psalm 98 can be used at Evensong as… Continue reading
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Writing a Hymn—and Learning Stabilitas Overnight
This hymn didn’t emerge in a chapel. It came overnight. In silence. In storm. In the unbuilt monastery of the mind. “Wild winds rise fierce across the plain,My refuge be.” The imagery came quickly. But the deeper formation came slowly—as most Benedictine things do. I’m part of a Benedictine community without walls. We are dispersed… Continue reading
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Half the parish
Waiting on a haircut, tea on the tray, pen in hand—and “Half the Parish” found its way onto the page. ☕✍️ There’s something about the hum of a café and the simple coming and going of people that turns into poetry if you sit long enough. Firecastle, Kildare. Simple time well spent. Half the parish … Continue reading
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Unknown Paths, Rising Hills: Writing a Hymn for the Second Sunday in Lent (Year A) — “You call us out to unknown paths” (CM)
You call us out to unknown paths You call us out to unknown paths,Like Abram long ago;Through mist along the Barrow’s bends,Your pilgrim people go.You lift our eyes to rising hills,Where skylarks greet the dawn;Your keeping shade, like hawthorn’s bough,Stands guard till night is gone.Not by our striving, strength, or claimBut gift of grace alone,You… Continue reading
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Coffee Quiet.
Over lunch with my husband in our local café, I settled into the gentle rhythm of the room—the soft sigh of the coffee machine, the low hum of conversation. Around us, friends chatted and colleagues worked, all our different lives briefly sharing the same warm space. As one half of the gay pair from the… Continue reading
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Divinity in Difference: The Window That Says What We’ve Been Trying to Say
Every now and then, an image comes along that says in colour and light what pages of writing have been circling for years. This stained-glass window feels like that. It gathers the heart of NeuroDivine—the essays, the fiction, the hymns, the poetry—and holds them up to the light with one steady claim: Difference is not… Continue reading
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The Pharmacy of Praise
This morning I wrote a hymn about pill boxes and blister packs—about Sundays spent sorting seven small doorways for the week ahead. It’s personal. Andrew and I both live by the rhythm of medicines, colours divided into morning and evening, lids clicked shut in quiet preparation. Sorting tablets isn’t a small thing in our house;… Continue reading
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