Today I followed the 
Way of the Dishes.
From Kinvara to Keelhilla 
along the greasy road.

The dishes flew before me.
Cups, plates and bottles of
red wine, a joint of beef,
stewed leeks and white 
bread, sliced for eating.

I could see them floating
just ahead, set upon a white
cloth. I could see the flap of 
it, rising to cross a hedge
like a flat fish swimming 
through clear water and 
me beneath like a small 
sprat following.

To follow was not easy. The
dishes rode across country,
taking hedges and ditches on
their white wings, while I was 
trapped by my car and the 
narrow ways of men. I had 
to turn corners and guess at 
my final destination.

I saw the dishes fly to a 
cliff face and drop behind 
bare branches, hazel and ash.

I parked the car and found the 
cloth come to ground, 
embroidered hem fluttering 
by the saint’s bed. A heap
of fallen stone.

The saint was a lean man. 
He picked at the beef and 
poured salt over the leeks, 
lest he be tempted.
He tossed his bread to the 
sparrows and foreswore 
the red wine, preferring 
water from his blessed spring.

But his servant gnawed the bones
bare and spread good butter on his 
bread. He drank his wine, thanking
whatever power it was that had 
sent cloth and dishes, whatever 
white hand it was that cooked 
this food, and the kindly air that 
carried it.

I watched from behind a tree as he
feasted while his master picked and 
prayed. I watched his belly swell. I
heard him groan as his starved guts
cramped.

Within the hour he will be dead and 
buried under a heap of stone. 
While the saint will live, 
revered by all for his restraint.

And the feast will grow mould, 
the white cloth will rot and the
wine will turn to vinegar in 
a tarnished cup.