Leaving Iona

(Poem begun on the bus from Fionnphort to Craignure on May 20th)

I'm leaving Iona again

will I return?

God alone knows.

As the bus traverses the Isle of Mull

The mountains are mourning with me

weeping silver threads of tears.

The rain packed clouds thicken the sky

and misty wisps cover the highest peaks.

It takes a long time to leave Iona and it's

larger Island neighbour,

Perhap's that's part of its power.

you really have to want to come.

Because it takes 9 hours with good connections

Train, ferry, bus,ferry

and the same in reverse.

And that's not counting the day on the plane!

But once I am finally there

It's like nowhere else I have ever been.

Almost impossible to describe

a presence that enfolds, holds and sets me free.

An awareness of God in the land -

tiny flowers in rocky places, the sounds of a cuckoo,

a song thrush and a corncrake,

the salty smells of the waves on the beach,

the feel of a weathered rock providing

a place to rest, the taste of homemade bread

with real butter and soup made with vegetables

from the organic garden.

Every sense is fully alive.

An awareness too

of the God in me and you

A smile exchanged

A prayer said together

Bread and wine passed and shared

A helping hand with my case.

A simple greeting in passing that became

two hours of deep connection over

cups of tea and chocolate bars

in a sunkissed garden where the flowers

bent their drooping heads to intoxicate the bees.

When I am home will I still hear Iona calling my name

Whispering quiely like waves on the shore

I hold in my hand my Iona stone

Gneiss with veins of pink and green and white

Polished smooth by the great seas might

I hold the stone in my hand, clenched tightly

the wanting so strong

then a voice says kindly "Just let me go."

so I relax my hand and hold the stone lightly

and then I see perhaps I have got this wrong

This is something I can't plan for or set a date

God knows the answers

God hears the same songs

Can I truly trust, let go and wait?

It is enough that a small stone,

photos of ewes and their lambs

and buldings aglow

hold memories and stories I'll never forget

May I rember that the blessings of Columba

run through my veins

Iona is in me and with me

and so she shall always remain.