Iona
by Mary Palmer
SAMPLES
Preacher
wild hair, grey
to the shoulder
a wolf, smalt eyes burning
with a clear flame
this Celt warrior
smoulders into song
in Relig Oran’s dolman chapel
commands the flow of voices
over stone
murmurings, that echo –
an ocean flooding in
so light strikes the silver cross
beneath a graven lintel
as solstice sun
skeletons seated in an ancient barrow:
tongues of fire could descend –
the howl of grief, ‘I want him back!’
tinder dry bones
and this Cave of Death
rattle with dancing
Black Madonna
St Michael’s Chapel
Ebony,
Ebony,
tiger lilies
should garland you
their petals, like tongues of fire
blazing in the slave-dark.
Ebony,
candles gutter
and your skin gleams
as if stained by tears
yet, soul quiet,
a light
flickers
in your downcast eyes,
a light we cannot violate.
Ebony,
Madonna,
dragon buds unleashing flame,
I halo you
and wreath your son,
newborn to dung and dirt.
Pasture of the Geese
I have crawled on beaches,
hands sticky with blood and tar
clambered rocks where
the guillemot draggles
oil-slicked wings.
No more angel than a shag,
a junkie tossed to the gulls,
I gobbled up my nightmare
and retched on the dark.
Now, I treasure-trail barefoot,
squat on dunes soft as breasts
where water-flags surge
and lambs shudder the ewe.
Here, in this thin place,
I choose to dream.
Milk-blue terns
light
on water
like pebbles skim my longing –
for the wild goose
whose wings, alone,
can shelter.