Columcille

Exile I am, for to the last, I carry in my
heart the oak groves of Derry with their
white angels from end to end that I have
seen but seldom since this wayward wing of the
house of high kings, that rendered not to
Caesar, was sent the swan’s way to be purged of
pride – far past my people’s
lands – lovely Islay of the geese that lies across the
kyle, and mild Kintyre that reaches always
out to mother Eire, all the Atlantic on to
Alba a glamour of green islands and
seas silver or blue, but pagan
places, so that the dove’s descent on Ararat had
not more joy in it than I had in my heart when
first I landed on the smooth white sands of
this my own Iona.
Eilean Idhe, holy island, this is
surely close to Heaven: green as a
shamrock, its very stones washed
long-since in the Saviour’s blood, it is an
axle-tree on which there turns a world of
water, light and space so pure that
men grow wings. My brothers in my own
time have followed flights of birds until they
found the far-flung Faroes, with other isles,
empty of souls, and carved the cross in
rock there to claim even these for Our Lord. We have
carried that cross to Pictish places and
saved pagan souls, making peace between
peoples, and here in high austerity our
scholars labour sweetly on the beauty of The Word.
Thus is my penance turned to high
purpose, for which I thank God.