Iona

This poem is about a walk on the beach (or "strand")on the island of Iona

Shells
So fragile
Elusive
Rare – except when placed in piles
by the local raging tide.

Shells
So small
So breakable
Uninteresting to those who
hate to stoop
and I dislike to bend.
Upright, I’d rather sing.
But had no song
no, had no song today
out on the sacred island’s strand.

If no song means an empty soul
I pray for filling here
To find a song - to sing it
On the beach
In all it’s glory.