The loch side chapels are converted into summer lets.
   Un-missed bells disappear from belfries reborn
as points of interest, architectural features full of air.


Granite bones of faith regain a flesh of board and paint:
   a resurrection of the Gaelic tabernacles; though
without the song. No call to neighbours who might reply.


© Bruach Mhor





I’d rather be on Lindisfarne

before the high-tide turns,

when it’s still Holy Island,


when sea birds might speak,

when some sacred-nature

intermingles with the sea’s fret.


The landscape feels as if it

quietly knows, turns sexton,

performs an ancient duty.


Before the pilgrim pathways

are revealed by the tide’s ebb,

wheels return, and mechanism.


And St Cuthbert, departing,

no longer walks on water

but only on the sand beneath.


© Bruach Mhor