Like a lamp in the northern wind,
Light of God for an eerie land,
Columba exile never to return,
Salt spray on tonsured head,
Crouched in wave-drenched curragh,
Guarded cross, spoon, platter
Of the Mysteries.
The May twilight glowed with green;
White water boiled over the reefs
On Scotia's destined isle.
Struggling in the shallows
Of the sucking tide,
Yearning for still land,
The crew beached the frail coracle.
They trickled clear sand
Through thankful fingers;
Saw grazing sheep, vetch, sea pink,
Campion; heard trilling larks
In that quiet hosting place
Of cairns for Christian kings.
Fire fashioned from flint
Columba cupped and blessed
A little flame.
Surge of spirit mocked
Anguish of stiff limbs.
Watched by weary eyes,
He took the Gospel from his leather bag,
Knelt, lips in prayer,
Remembering the eve of Pentecost.
From Pine's the Canadian Tree
(Tower Poetry Society Press, 1975)
