Holy Islands

When pressed too hard
By sinfulness, the Celtic saints
Made for an island.
Columba to Iona
Cuthbert to Lindisfarne
And many a Scottish saint
Put water between himself
And immorality.

But solitude was brief.
Believing holiness is caught
Like common colds
Pilgrims came in thousands.
Going to Bardsey, at the tip of Wales,
Equalled a quarter of a voyage to Rome,
Cleansed you, in that proportion,
Of your sins.

To us, sin is no problem.
The Inner Farne, where Cuthbert,
Desperate for goodness, prayed
Up to his neck in water,
In company with seals and otters
Who came to lick him dry,
Is sacred now only to eider duck
And cormorants, and gulls.

Yet still the pilgrims flock
To marvel at the terns, who cross,
Miraculously, half a world
To rear their young in safety.