Writers often have a grand, cozy notion about how creativity is supposed to work. We picture the perfect tidy desk, a quiet room to ourselves, and a lovely, untouched notebook. But inspiration, much like grace, usually prefers to show up completely unannounced on the back of whatever scrap of paper you happen to have rattling around in your pocket.

Have a look at this photo here:

Following a pilgrimage down to Clonmacnoise on St Columba’s Day, I found myself waiting for a train in Portlaoise. The words just started coming, rushing, and I had to grab an old service sheet from Maundy Thursday to catch them before they went out of my head.

What gets me looking at this scrap now is how the text is literally layered. The poem itself—which is all about carrying the faith of the Celtic saints abroad—is scribbled directly over the top of the Eucharistic prayers of service and memory (“On the night he was betrayed…”).

You can see the whole anatomy of the revision on the page, too: scratching out “winter fog” to change it to “Irish fog,” and wrestling away with the rhythm until the very last line, “And tell the world as new,” finally settled itself right at the bottom.

It’s a brilliant reminder that the “Church of God we take abroad” isn’t just for holy places; it belongs on train platforms, when you’re in transit, and in all the ordinary, messy corners of our day-to-day lives.

(If you fancy reading the final, polished poem that came out of this scribbled liturgy, you can catch the full piece over at NeuroDivine.ie next week).