Skellig
My feet have never trod
Shale cliffs rising,
Nor my shoulders bowed
To peer in a stone-made hut,
Yet both cry out:
What knowledge is this
That I should know
Your dirt and stone and moss
Like the hand of an old friend?
One day will you greet me:
Then with rushing breeze,
And song of gulls joyful,
Sunlight dancing on endless waves?
Fingers touching stone,
Tracing full circle
Across continents, oceans,
Time?
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