The Day of Saints - Day 22, Endellion

The beautiful St Endellion church, "stands near an ancient, probably early Brittonic , cemetary, and therefore may have roots going back to early Christian times" (Trudgian, in Orme, 113).

Inside of the Collegiate Church of St Endellion

Saint Endellion (or Endlienta/Endelient) was, by the few early records a woman, another of the daughters of the Welsh king Brychan, sister to Nectan and others. She left Wales and settled for a time on the island of Lundy in the Bristol Channel. There she established a chapel. Later, she journeyed to Cornwall and Nicholas Roscarrick, who in the 17th century wrote up as best he could what he could find in folklore and elsewhere of the lives of various Celtic saints, records that she lived at Trentinney in what is now St Kew parish. Legend has it that Endellion lived a very austere life and subsisted on the milk of a cow until it strayed onto the land of the Lord of Trentinney, who promptly killed it. King Arthur (yes, him!), said to have been Endellion's godfather, then killed the Lord in revenge, though Endellion miraculously revived him (Orme, 113).

Near the time of her death, Endellion had a vision and following it requested that when she died she be placed on to a cart pulled by young bullocks, and that wherever they stopped she should be buried. This happened, and they brought her to a marshy area on top of a hill where the church was afterwards built. Some of this is illustrated in the background of the icon which was painted by a local iconographer and with sits in the church.

Icon of Endellion (Endelienta)

In writing this poem, I have drawn an image of music from the regular concerts that are now held at the church, and from the affinity that it seems from the legends that Endellion had with cattle. I have imagined the animals mourning as the procession passes by. It is written in less rigid form that some previous ones in this group.

FOR ENDELLION

Mood Music

Music plays, and it is sweet,

in slow irregular contemplations,

the fall of footsteps

and turn of creak-circles

Scribing the ledgers behind.

The delicate drawn figure is familiar,

To Nectan, Dilic, Yse and Advent

Wenna, Cleder and Mabon,

Yet, for us, poignant, each movement

of memory, the moment strains to make way.

For us, a morning audience of friends, stood by,

This passage is heard like unreached pastures,

Yet, like joy of milk to a young-un it is to see

our own, ahead on-the-hoof, improvising,

Steered by instinct coda-wards.

Once our soloist, now the silent part,

Of a slow ascent in a quagmire mood,

We stave this and lo, we lay her low.

Raise a horn, a bell, or stand dumb,

On Trevennor's land

the final bar has come.

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