The ferry rumbles its prosaic way
across the windswept bay,
arriving as the early mist begins
to dissipate, and the sun finds every
tuft of heather about to bloom.
The island's lack of trees belies
its wealth of moss and lichen adorning
stone; and the palest green on hills
alloys to gray, a masterwork of subtlety.
The landscape wails harsh and spare.
Jagged, protruding rock, sculpted
once by hand, but now only by wind,
conveys sound from crack and crevice.
Stones, on end, decorate the landscape,
from sea and edifice, beaten beautiful.
The island's lone Abbey looms solitary,
its wattle and timber still buttressed
with rock, infused with the film of ages.
No stone's as dormant as it seems--
humming like harps whispering holy odes,
thinning the margins of heaven and earth--
where breathing becomes prayer,
and prayer, an unharnessed chariot.