Iona, Lindisfarne:
off-shore islands thinly
divided from the next world.
The simple act of walking
their shores forms
a pilgrimage but time,
not place,
now shrinks the space
between separated realms.
Emerging from sleep,
I find the mundane
and unprecedented
waiting
hand-in-hand
to coax me through
an inner landscape
of boredom and habit,
drab and beguiling as moorland
around a sacred place.
A map replaced by a clock –
stopped? slow? unreliable? --
my only guide across expanses
hiding frightening consequences.
Each of us an island of tidal breathing.
We inhale
reminders that endurance
is the training ground
for holiness.
Then exhale exhaustion.
Sanctuary remains elusive.