There is no roof on the hermit’s cell,
which makes it easier
to contact heaven
Stones and bones stud the hill above
firmly embedded
in it for the long haul
Old fortifications hang round
like a necklace
rock threaded to rock
And from the summit
the cell is a ring
dropped into the wilderness
between sea and sea
where no-one passes,
and only angels linger,
gathering forgotten prayers
This one of a number of my poems about Iona, published this week in a 48-page paperback, The Road Ends, with accompanying photographs. It is available from me by hand for £5, or £6 if I have to post it to you. Contact me at the e-mail address at the bottom of this page.