Invocation to Iona

 Dear Reader,

Puffins, especially Atlantic puffins have a rich history marked by both decline and resurgence.  In the 19th century they were heavily hunted for feathers, eggs and meat leading to significant population drops in areas like Maine.  However, conservation efforts, like Project Puffin, have seen a revival of puffin populations in regions where they were once nearly extinct, demonstrating their resilience and the power of conservation.

In Iceland and Faroe Islands the birds have been hunted relatively sustainably for centuries.  But in North America in the 1800s and early 1900s populations declined and puffins disappeared entirely from the United States.

In Irish folklore puffins are reincarnations of Celtic monks and in the Faroe Islands they are known as prestur - priests.

Puffins are known for their curious nature and placid temperaments, often approaching humans without fear.  Puffins are highly intelligent birds.  Scientists have come to that conclusion as they have identified big-brain-behaviour in puffins which so far have only been discovered in primates and elephants.  For instance, the Atlantic puffin has been observed using sticks and twigs as a tool to scratch themselves.

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From Gerald Manley Hopkins   May 17th  1874  in Surrey

.... to Combe Wood to see and gather bluebells, which we did, but fell in bluehanded with a gamekeeper, which is a humbling thing to do.  Then we heard a nightingale utter few strains-strings of very liquid gurgles.

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth  May 20th  1800 in Westmorland

A fine mild rain.   After breakfast the sky cleared and before the clouds passed from the hills I went to Ambleside.    It was a sweet morning.   Everything green and overflowing with life, and the streams making a perpetual song, with the thrushes and all little birds, not forgetting the stone-chats.

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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 best wishes, Patricia