To Iona

Those early monks journeyed by coracle,
— No rudder, only oars and water to propel.
We went by steam. Our engine hummed
All afternoon a three–note chord,
A comfortable doh–me–soh that lulled our minds.
We leaned over the rail and watched
The coast of Mull slip quietly by:
A wild but gentle country,
Empty of humans and their noise,
With little bays and inlets,
And fingers of low rock
Worn smooth by centuries of water–work
Covering and uncovering bald pink heads,
Like bobbing bathers.

The engine hummed its three–note chord.
The usual retinue of seagulls
Balanced white wings above us,
Eyeing the ship for scraps.
A cormorant or two skimmed the grey sea,
Or sat with black heraldic wings,
Drying their feathers on a rock.

The engine thrummed. We passed by Staffa.
Sunshine lit its strange hexagonal columns,
Turned them to pale blue silk.
In Fingal's Cave, the waves leapt higher,
With a savagery quite unlike
The suave melodious tones of Mendelsohn!

At last we sighted the square tower of the Abbey
Built to remember primitive cells
The monks from Ireland put up centuries ago.
The engine ceased.
We clambered down ship's ladders to small craft
That ferried us across a shallow bay
To the white beaches of Iona.