Even through the sea mist, looking out over Tràigh Ghearadha,
I feel sure I can see North Rona;
Before this place, it was a light along the Whale-Road, out of the world
Silence, autonomy: where no tyrants enforce a safeness, nor punish the opaque.
Hazel branches, fallen fortuitously into the silver bucket
Look like a crown, or a vortex.
Around my wrist, I wear the black and blue prayer rope
Woven all those abyssal years ago by Lady Anne:
She in her cell at the Abbey of St. Hildegard,
I in my caravan-as-cell on some desolate beach.
I keep her kindness close, since my hands now craft an unknown structure:
Perhaps it is a device upon which I shall hang
For my own Wintercearig
And yet, the torrents of the past and the wellsprings of the present
Are living waters flowing back and forth and into each other
Causing us to plant seeds, which grow and give us food
And a joy which makes some others hateful.
If the world must have my faith, it is this.
The Drochaid does not lead to nowhere
For there is the ruined chapel, within whose light
One does not need to believe in order to enter and dyssolve.
Music: Sjóraust VI