Invocation to Iona

 

Dear Reader, 

Iona is a holy isle and has been described as the birthplace of Christianity in Scotland.  St. Columba and twelve companions came here for Ireland in AD 563, and the monastery they founded was one of the most important and influential in the British Isles.  St. Columba came there to live the monastic life.

Legend states that there are forty Scottish kings including Kenneth 1, Kin of Dai Riata founder of Medieval Scotland buried here, as is his son Constantine, who died in battle, beheaded by the Vikings.

Certain miracles have happened on Iona and this apparently is one of them.  Eight years after a battle the king died on Iona with Adomnan praying at this bedside.  Legend has it that Adomnan prayed all night for the king who miraculously rose from the dead the next morning.

St. Columba is buried on Iona. 

Vikings attacked the abbey in 795, 802, and 806.   They stole treasures, burned down the monastery and massacred the monks.

 I feel that my own experience on the Isle of Iona was a kind of miracle.  Something certainly happened to me there and I wrote the following poem.  If I wasn't so old I would certainly like to return as I think it is for me a sacred place like no other.

                                                                                    *      

From Francis Kilvert    July 22nd  1873 in Wiltshire

'To-day the heat was excessive and as I sat reading under the lime I pitied the poor haymakers toiling in the burning Common where it seemed to be raining fire.'

From Richard Jefferies  July 22nd 1884 in Sussex

'Hot sun, little crackling sounds among the wheat, increasing as the wind blew.'

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Invocation to Iona

 

“Iona, sacred island, mother,

I honour you,

who cradle the bones

of Scottish kings,

Who birthed coloured gemstones

to enchant bleached beaches,

who shelter puffins on your rocks.

 

I wrap myself in your history,

and knot the garment with

machair rope-grass.

In the Port of Coracle

your southern bay,

I hear the wind-blown cormorants cry

and draw a breath.

I see Columba’s footsteps

in the sand, and weep.

Tears overflow,

I am spirit-engulfed.

 

“I ask you, Iona,

is this then, or now,

what is, or what has been?

Does the rolling salt sea-mist

cover the uncounted time between?”

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia

P.S.   This is, folks, the favourite poem that I have ever written.  Beats: The Mind Cupboard!