The Day of Saints - Day 23, Nectan

Thoughts and Prayers

The experience of visiting a tourist attraction that holds the name, if not much actual provinance of, a saint, was for me a mixed thing. I enjoyed looking at the waterfalls at 'Saint Nectan's Glen', but felt ambivalent about the surrounding trappings and imagery. Having visited many Anglican churches in recent weeks which had prayer trees, it was interesting to see, not far from a Buddha statue, a tree with hundreds of wishes or prayers written on ribbons. Add in some Arthurian mythology, dream catchers and other eclectic 'spiritual' paraphernalia and it left me longing for a bit more clarity (or maybe certainty!).

How to cast this into a poem? I've taken the title from the two parts of a Life of Nectan written somewhere in the 12th century, Inventio being his relics, and Miracula a list of miracles associated with the saint. I think Nectan would have been a lot clearer than I have been in what follows, but I've tried to hold some of my own understanding alongside the varied images that were there in a creative way. I've incorporated the image of the waterfall, too.

St Nectan's Glen

FOR NECTAN

Everyone's Downfall - 'Inventio' and 'Miracula'

Curious, I asked them,

What it was they were there for,

We're not sure', they said,

We're here on a day trip,

Nice surprises, amusing things, to delight us,

Colours we haven't seen,

Noises we haven't heard, hopefully,

We bought the ticket to feel...,

Well, it's special.

I listened, and heard the trickling of the stream.

I put it another way,

What is it you're after, something old and arcane?

Archaeology - ancient history, they said, as a matter of fact,

Sounds once heard to remember,

Scraps to place in books;

Our children can learn here, and hopefully,

Later they will be able to recall,

Everything we've covered.

I looked, and saw the shaking canopy of the trees.

Still puzzled, I tried again,

What do you hope to find?

Miracles, they said, hopefully,

All the signs are they are here, right?

The rocks and the ribbons,

The woodlands and the waterfalls,

The candles and crystals,

Window spells and wickerwork stars...

(And the little yellow warning on the wall saying, 'Please don't drop litter')

Later, reaching to open a gate partly closed,

I wondered whether my co-visitors had found what they were there for,

But I couldn't ask them, as by then they had packed themselves off to the restaurant,

Searching for a skinny latte, and a slice of treacle tart.

Some, I know, are glad of the diversion, to have filled a day,

Tastes well catered for,

With echoes of Cornish 'tradition',

Others, yearning, perhaps, to track down the prismatic,

May see life here in the woods and the trees,

And sometimes unicorns,

No surprise, there will be those who view all this as a pretty hollow surrounding,

A wholly hole, devoid of anything 'holy' or 'miraculous'.

And I guess they move on, unmoved.

As for me,

I am here too casually browsing,

On my own tourist pilgrimage,

but, (costly to admit),

It is finally getting through

That,

Here, as anywhere,

Like shimmering clouds,

Like a brimming and

Magnificent torrent,

Divine love descending;

Cascading endlessly,

Falling relentlessly,

onward,

like water,

onto rock,

bouncing,

and beating,

its path,

all the way,

downing,

until, met

at last,

in time

may wide-

open a narrow

way

into

the

heart

of even

this

cold

solid

wall.

--------------------------------

(poem revised 6/11/19)