The Green Isle

The Celts
seem to have felt
something peculiarly appropriate
about an island burial.
Their kings were ferried in state
to far Iona.
Lesser mortals
sought immortality in lesser isles
off many a quiet shore
or lonely loch.
One such I saw
one rainy day this June.
Eilean Fhionnan — Isle of St Finnan, or
(locally) The Green Isle.

A greener place to crumble in
there never was.
Hundreds had done just that:
most without slab or cross
to nag posterity.
There, the gorse blazes
and bluebells breathe their scent
across dark water,
and only gulls lament.
If, as you crumbled, you could smell
the bluebells and the gorse, and hear
the water's lisp,
it would be fine to crumble there .

But I shall not insist.
The dead should not make trouble,
adding expense to (possible) grief,
I'll be content to crumble nearer home.

That anything survives the process
I have no belief.
But if there were
some quintessential Me,
stubborn to live on,
I should be glad to think
it could be ferried over the dark water
to some similar green isle.

And yet —
what benefit?
Without eye, nose, or ear,
or hand or limb or mouth,
or any other dear
convenience — or inconvenience — of flesh,
what could that quintessential Me do there?
What could the saint himself do there
but crumble?

No — I shall not insist.