In 1997 I wrote a series of poems inspired by the weekly pilgrimage around Iona. In last weeks visit I decided it was time to re-visit that idea and see what a new version might look like. Once a few more of the group have posted their photographs on flikr I may well illustrate the poem with some pictures - but for now I will let the words stand on their own.

Pilgrimage 2010

Warm welcome is piped,

our departure sung,

and onlookers stand in curious gaze.

We have lost count

of heavens deft touch

and the delicate way earth responds.

Open silent walls,

Yet sisters tell tales

and remember scented flowering verbs.

We heard Sophia’s

affirming new voice

and tread silently, silently on.

At the meeting place

a people worked hard,

and parted for distant new found land shores.

Our race died here

or else embraced life

moving past the place of no return.

Following waymarkers

over hidden stones

and a misty uncertain horizon.

Tell old stories

to seek a new cause,

soaring beyond imagination.

Idle rusted tool

hides joyful primrose

and rich veined marble shards wait to be gleaned.

Unseen work stands

at nations centre

and heads homeward as loving token.

At Columba’s bay

tiny cairn is built

and a well worn myth climbs inviting cliffs.

We are made new

with un-thrown stones

carried boldly into mission’s soul.

Conversation flows,

languages collide

a coloured stranger is wasted unused.

Enrichment stalls

fresh life is ungiven,

we say prayers and sup Adam’s clear Ale.

At the barbed runrig,

pure pleasure is clubbed,

and natural returns as farms decline.

We have made chains

and broken old links

singing new songs of justice and faith.

Hilltop look out post

mountaintop echoes

crying for well remembered dreams lived out.

Not in wild currents,

but in chuckling song

and blithe reply to prodigal reign.

Silently

bog-step

gate-close

insect-hum

wrapped in a mantle

of whisper.

Ancestors dancing

James and Isa

Dan and Annie

Helen, Betty

Morag and Barbara

Naming our saints

Piping our welcome

Singing our heavenly touch.

News comes slowly here

and a wee girl dances

as Mum sings of unmourned detainees.

Innocent hope

welcomes fresh future

even as death stalks friend and stranger.

And we turn inland,

to life left behind,

renewed somehow in a quick sideways glance.

Clearing poetry

Shaking images

of grace-filled welcome at stranger’s gate.

© Craig Muir 2010

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