Eynhallow

It comes to this. Time passes and nothing alters.

A black shoreline stretches, rippled water on it, laps.

They kneel in contemplation, purgatorial souls gathered

For a Stygian moment before their crossing.

I realise they know not what they did or did not do.

That is the way with wickedness, never a single step,

No grand design, merely the absence of good intent.

Twilight on the beach illuminates stones that have stood

Five thousand years without a thought and below them

Picks out pebbles and driftwood on the wet sand.

Far beyond sight is an island where monks once prayed

For passing mortals as the westerlies blew them on

Blew their sails full and fat, pushed them upon reef and roost

To be swallowed by the sea and all her tides to come.

When the sailboat, a longship or birlinn, comes to shore

As the splash of oars brings it close, the gathered ones

See no crew. The oars rise and fall under no-one’s hand,

Ship themselves as the keel scrapes home.

They say there is a farther shore, another island in the night

Where some might find redemption, where others find despair

And plunge into the swell. Others hang on to spar or rigging

Until a kingdom come for which there are no names, to bow

Before whatever kings might rule the darkness there.

© BH, 2016

---

This is part of a longer work in which the title here won't appear. Another part is Mare Ingenii and, yes, there is another lunar name for this one too.

This, though, is inspired by Eynhallow and Eynhallow Sound in Orkney. It can stand alone, so here it is. It will surface in the longer work at some stage (unless I change my mind).

In the image, Eynhallow is on the left. The rest is Eynhallow Sound. Apart from the crowd and the birlinn.