Poetry Commons

A sacred site off the west coast of Scotland:

THE ISLE OF IONA

Iona is the passionate, ascetic

heart of Scotland, protected by its own

desolation; grave of kings set in the veins

of an icy sea.

The Tarot of Iona would include images

of its ancient abbey, with indwelling

devas, the white fringe of spray

ringing her shores, the cell of St. Columba,

the Christian lamb, the wind that speaks

this island's mind to each pilgrim

who passes here.

It was lambing season when I arrived on Iona

and secured a room at the Black's, in a shed perched

away from their farmhouse.  Mr. Black was one

of generations of Iona farmers, with

great blue eyes the earth had informed with peace,

with his own birds flying through his thoughts,

and fingers that will be strong at death.

Mrs. Black was a shy mainlander he'd met thirty

years ago, she vacationing, she never really falling

into the rhythm of the sea-locked seasons here,

never quite accepting resident saints into her dreams.

In a stone-walled field

near the manse, at the sea's doorstep,

two bent trees, fifty yards apart.  Each evening there,

a flock of crows and one of sparrows would fly within

the strictures of that square, turning past each other

like a gust of stars, two motions of a single mind.

Iona seen through a glass darkly.

At night I would sit on rockpeak, under wind's hand,

under a pierce of stars, playing the pennywhistle.

And never in day could I recall the melodies

that unwound, but my head felt like flame

and I felt visiting hints of Pan as

the music rose like Celtic incense

during the long night...