A Radiant Isle

The morning air is cool, the weather fine,
The Isle, across the Sound, a breath away.
And there ahead, beyond the bows we see
The old stones blushing through a rainbow spray.

In shallow water, finger dipping sun
has washed the underlay of sand with light,
transformed the sea from sapphire blue to green,
Like emerald silk shot through with lazurite.

Iona’s charm does not lie in her face,
she cannot boast a splendid Scottish scene.
No waterfalls or mountains grace her land
and yet there is an Abbey on her green.

Once home to Druids, Sanctuary of Saints;
for many a Scottish king a resting place;
Iona’s ancient power still radiates
a natural mystique, a simple grace.

When western skies are turning red and gold
We know the time has come when we must go