Castlecuffe N.S.

The Spirit of St. Manman
Yes, I recall the thrill of it all.
Those days of growth
When I seized the day and set my roots
In those green fields around Lahool.

The dreams which were sown
In my mind had soon grown
to new buildings though bare
but great houses of prayer
And places to share
In our meals of plain fare.
Produced by our own bare hands.

The joy I would feel
When the bells would peal
Calling us to kneel,
To chant and to pray.
Six times a day
We were called to pray
That was our way.

These scholars and saints
With precious inks for paints
Copied at length
Using quills, not a pen
On calfskin called vellum which was
Stretched, pulled and scraped
For illuminated manuscript.
What joy to behold
the stories unfold
A gospel retold
In a labour of love.

Some monks played a part
Making other works of art
Or working on the farm.
Our time was well spent
Carving stone monuments
or tending the plants.

But now
What a scene
No activity to be seen
In Kilmanman or Corrigeen.

Surrounded by Yew
There is a view
The graves of the dead.
In the bushes
The lovely thrushes
Sing songs over
The graves of the dead.
In Heaven above
Surrounded by love
Those who have left
The graves of the dead.
Is that all thats left?
I am feeling bereft,
As if theres been theft
Of all of our effort!
My heart it is heavy
Nothings left of my monastery
Farewell Christianity?

But now a bell chimes
Is this still a sign
Of people called to prayer?
I follow the sound
That I hear in the air
It brings me around
To a sight so fair
A wonderful church
In Clonaslee By the Way.

What wonderful singing
Is in my ears ringing,
As I make my way forward
To the beautiful building.
And oh, how exciting!
Theres people alighting
From boxes on wheels
that come to a halt.
I watch in surprise
As families arrive,
Women and children,
What a change from my time.
As I stand at the door
I am struck by the scene
Celebrating 200 years
since 1813!

200 years! I could burst out in tears!
All that hard work and strain has not been in vain!
That feeling inside is now one of pride.
The tradition I started has not stopped or departed.
But lives on today in the Church of Saint Manman.

As I turn to my right, I am struck by the sight
Of a familiar tombstone.
That stone is a link to those days with the ink
And I travel back happy again.
I can hardly wait
For the creak of that gate
To look on and listen again
To the sounds of the silence.
Sweet sounds to soothe my soul.