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atalantacreative
Elegy on the Book of Kells

The morning of their sacrifice, kyries wafted out the monastery
bell tower, the bees paused a moment over the lavender, the owl was roused
from new sleep even as she had just settled under the eaves in the hay barn, talons

mousebloodied. On the skins of calves Christ was glorified, illumined
as never before in the word—crocus, vermilion, celadon, fine-powdered
Persian lapis in egg, blueviscous-tipped brushes of otter fur and marten.

Swan quills dipped in cowhorn inkwells, black of oak gall, bone soot proclaimed
the gospels; Matthew, Mark, Luke and John and every letter a mystery. Knots
and lacings spilled from the hands of the redeemed, Celtic and Arabic. Creatures

real, imagined, leapt from the scripture, lions, birds, angels, and the calves
who had witnessed the magical birth, who had died swiftly in the courtyard,
could almost be heard over the evening vespers when the columbine brushed
the kitchen threshold, lowing.

Draft Horses. Closest thing to an Irish image I have
taken since I was in the UK years ago.