Christopher Southgate
Iona
I come six hundred miles to be here -
exchange heather for heather, Dartmoor streams
for Sound of Mull. I come for sorting,
space, aloneness. I am content
when the mist falls
on Scotland to the east.
For centuries they used this place to bury kings.
Then it lay forgotten, island
among many of the Lords of Argyll.
The ferry now crosses, recrosses
as thousands come
to borrow misty peace.
How Columba would have wondered,
standing by his wattle cell, staring
into Scotland, the Christless hills.
This island of burial, memory, retreat
danced under his feet
like a springboard.
Page(s) 71
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