Time Travel

You call me all the way from Dingle,
worried I will never understand
the miracle of beehive huts
monks made by hand from
dry-stacked stones 14 centuries ago.

Inside, you say, the light glows
dimly, as if captured on the day
the first monk bent to prayer
beneath the tiny window,
benediction still and swift at once,
fleeting foretaste of eternity.

Your single sob travels from a pub
in County Kerry, to reach me in Seattle,
spanning the Atlantic and eight hours
and a continent.

I want to hold you, make oblation
for your tears. You say it’s always
been the same for fools and saints
who try to stay what vanishes
upon arrival, tearing palms and fingertips
on stone.