Invocation to Iona (repeat)

 Dear Reader,

 

Obviously the 'Invocation to Iona' poem is very popular with you so I decided to put it on again this week.

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Puffins are iconic seabirds known for their colourful bills and clumsy walk on the land.  They use rough their tongues to pin slippery fish against the roof of their mouths, allowing them to carry a record-breaking number of fish at once, often around 10/12 or up to a dozen in a single trip.

Their vibrant orange and red bills are actually a seasonal decoration.  In winter they shed the colourful outer sheaf of their bill and become a dull grey, blooming bright orange again in spring to attract a mate

Puffins are largely monogamous and mate for life, sometimes staying with the same partner for up to 20 years.   When couples re-unite at the colony after spending months apart at sea, they greet each other with a ritual called 'billing' where they gently tap and rub their beaks together.  Instead of open nests puffins dig 1- 3 meters deep into grassy cliffs or take over an abandoned rabbit tunnel to lay their single egg. 

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I have still got a vicious cough.  How long, I wonder, will I have it and when will it go away.?  AI tells me that I can have it for 6-8 weeks. Lots to look forward to then.

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From Dorothy Wordsworth  October 11th  1802 in Westmorland 

' A beautiful day.  We walked to the Easedale hills to hunt waterfalls.  William and Mary left me sitting on a stone in the solitary mountains, and went to Easedale tarn.  I grew chilly and followed them.' 

 Just a note here.  Poor Mary Wordsworth (William's wife) never got a moment with her husband without Dorothy appearing to accompany them, wanted or not.

 

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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’s 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