An old tradition that seems sadly lost in today’s world. A vehicle for families to pray together in simplicity and faith.
Childhood memories
Of the old farm house kitchen.
The men fed and settled
After a long day of toil.
The women finishing up
After their own labours.
Grandad, without a word,
Kneels by the range.
Even the dogs sense the mood:
The family rosary begins…
A seemingly garbled chant
In double quick time.
The hypnotic cadence:
Haly mary… holy mary…
Ireland, 1960s,
Catholics praying in tongues???
The evening rosary
In time honoured fashion.
And I, child, watching
Their faces in the fire’s glow.
For a child, Sunday Mass
Might be tedious ritual,
But I did not begrudge
These minutes given to God.
Simple, unadorned liturgy,
Heart-sensed, beyond words.
To the junior heart,
Precious exposure to the sacred.
This nightly gathering
Of my own dear folk.
Did this shared prayer
Give me the Treasure?
That sense of God
Which appears so rare
Among my generation?
The old people
Are largely gone now,
And the sacred flame
Seems dimmer today
Than memories of then.
What have we lost?
What have we lost,
With our modern wisdom
And enlightened pride?
And our children?
What will we bequeath?
We had the foundation,
But did we build the house?
Is it too late tonight,
To begin the rosary again?