After ten hours and more
than a thousand years, I stand
on this rocky shore.

Once the world ended here,
where Saint Columba landed,
seeking a new world. 

To the north, nothing but ice.
West, only cold and Canada.
South, forsaken Ireland

with its saints and stories,
music and lush greens.
Here, endless wind

and damp and cold. The ferry
that stitches the strait to Mull
and back many times each day. 

I walk the isle’s empty roads,
gather green and striped smooth 
stones in its coves. Sit in its

abbey to feel the silence. As I
lean into ceaseless wind, my heart
slows to the rhythm of home.