From birth he was set to become the king,
The people called for this man to be crowned
To rule in high riches was not his thing,
So crossed the Irish Sea to holy ground:
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And after seven years of long study,
He landed at that great River Camel,
To pray in saint Wethnoc's monastery;
Thirty more years he lived an abbots tale:
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But once in pride he predicted His will,
For three days he was wrong, and plagued by guilt;
He went to Rome, Israel, further still,
To India and back, faith he rebuilt:
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From your life, as mine starts to unravel,
I learned sometimes it's best to just travel.
YOU ARE READING
Saintly Sonnets
PoetryA collection of sonnets based around saints. I just need something else to write about.
