Lunnaness
Rags and tatters of land
Pegged out in the wind:
Black, wiry grass;
Twisted hills -- the distance
Veiled in rain, blind
Fold on fold -- end
Where bare walls stand
And face the waves, and stare.
The sea, and nothing beyond it.
The empty shore. Behind it,
The houses without roofs,
The prayers without answer.
Holy Island Arch
Against the buffeting wind and the sea's growl
The crafted stone
Soars overhead in the high blue forever,
Thin as a wishbone.
Nothing so fragile should stand so strong.
Leaping, unbound,
As if quarried blocks were weightless; as if wind
Could not suddenly dash them down,
The sandstone balanced by the mason's hand
Impossibly, holds.
All grace defies weight, logic, weather --
Bends like a bow,
Like hope, launching itself
Into cold space.
The breaking sun transfigures it. An equal,
Opposite embrace
Is all that keeps the stones from crashing,
And the heart,
That has one longing only -- to be met and held
In such an arch.
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