Some of us persisted in the old faith,
believing paradise existed
at the top of the cliff-face
we scaled in dreams on moonless nights,
that it lay within our grasp
like fulmar eggs or gannet flesh
out upon the skerries, crags
concealed within a frail, white
shell or wintry plumage, ours to touch and hold
when a cold wind blowing across the island
brought us pain or discomfort,
causing crops to rot or suffer blight.
All this an illusion – we came to know
these nights a preacher’s words brought wings to us
that helped us climb through darkness,
knowing there was no alternative but to be lifted high by Christ.