Sean Walsh

I live in Dublin, Ireland. Sometimes. Most times I live in my head, quite unaware of my surroundings – if you know what I mean… If you succeed in tracking Sean Walsh, please let me know, ok? I've been searching for him for years…

Wee Nudge, Mark 9

And yourself, Sean: ‘ever say the odd prayer?..


Huh… Odd is right. To be honest,

I’m not much of a hand at it –

sure I can hardly get through

a Hail Mary without an Alien or two

flitting through my head…

Tell you what, though. I try to find

a quiet space, betimes, turn to him…

In Joseph’s carpentry, shaping wood

with saw and nails and hammer…

Walking a rich pasture, calling to sheep

that know his voice…

In a desert place,

searching for the one that has strayed…

At a wedding feast in Galilee,

his mother giving him the elbow:

They have no wine…

By the lake shore, calling men

who would deny and desert him

to be fishers of men…

Exploding in righteous, white-hot anger,

at those who had turned his father’s house

into a den of thieves.

Or – best of all – find him at the well

awaiting the Samaritan woman…

I’d sidle up to him, then,

my forehead against his shoulder

and nudge… and again, nudge…

until he’d turn to look at me.

Ne’er a word, then… Just –

deep, harrowing sorrow,

forever forgiveness,

limitless love…

But will it work? Will it what!

Sure all you need is a heart –

and the neck… to nudge…

God made man.




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