Not Patrick

Sweetpeas

 

 

Dear Reader,

St. Patrick of Ireland was born at Kilpatrick near Dunbarton in Scotland, in the year 387, he died at Saul, Downpatrick, Ireland, 17th March 461.

Patrick is venerated as a saint in the Catholic Church, the Church of Ireland and in the Eastern Orthodox Church where he is regarded as equal-to-the apostles and Enlightener of Ireland.

He is a patron saint of Ireland and a patron of migrants because of his association with the Irish.  There were certainly Christians in Ireland before Patrick arrived as a missionary in the country, and that the saint worked as an evangelist only in part of the island. 

Patrick began preaching the Gospel throughout Ireland converting many.   He and his disciples preached and converted thousands and began building churches all over the country.   Kings, their families and entire kingdoms converted to Christianity when hearing Patrick's message.

Patrick was never canonized as a saint.  He may be known as the patron saint of Ireland but was never actually canonized by the Catholic Church. 

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My mother wanted a boy and was going to call him Patrick to please Irish Granny.  So that is how I became Patricia also to please Granny.

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From Gilbert White    August 23rd 1785 in Hampshire

'Martins and swallows congregate by hundreds on the curch tower.   These birds never cluster in this manner, but on sunny days.   They are chiefly the first broods, rejected by their dams, who are busyed with a second family.'

From Richard Jefferies   August 23rd 1879 in Surrey

'Rain steady all morning: heavy till afternoon - caused local flood.  Evening dry but cloudy.   The wood pigeons are now in the wheat on flocks (they beat the ears with bill).'

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Not Patrick

 

 

The woman forgot

to say goodnight.

No footsteps on the stone,

dark passages silent,

her child’s cries unheard.

A wet pillow, a wet bear

bore witness.

 

The woman loved men,

all men were gin in her tonic,

men for dazzle and dancing.

Uncles abounded, bringing presents

in exchange for loitering in the garden,

freeing the house for abandon.

 

The woman said the fault

was in the gender,

fate slipped up,

daughters were not expected.

She yearned for a son

to delight and love her,

understand her frailties.

Sons would have adorned her.

 

The woman, dying, summoned the priest

succumbed to the last rites,

gave up of herself to this last man.

There were no footsteps by the bed,

her last cries unheard,

no tears were shed.

 

 

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

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