A rugged island sleeps

A rugged island sleeps

In peace

The wind veers away

A little piece of heaven

On a windswept day

The smell of smoked fish

Lingers

From beyond the veil

With the relics

Of bygones

Carried in the bags

Of pilgrims

Fighting to be first

To find redemption.

At low tide

They would return

To the bad lands

Where the devil

Plays with souls

Sells them into slavery

I see him on the headland

Shaking a fist

At the wind

Waiting for the tide to turn.

There is no escape

From the onset of time

Come morning

The way will be clear

For the Vikings

To sweep in from the north

Tearing down the walls

Making ruins of us all.

Stepping forward

I am a modernist

The sound of swords

The tinkle of a register

The hoards will return

To the mainland

Before the sea rises.

When,

By all that is holy

This land

Will be an Island

Of tranquillity.

Once more.