ISLE OF IONA, SCOTLAND
Pure honey-colored morning sun
steeply cuts through eastern windows.
Warming the formal dining room
expectantly awaiting guests
sleeping in on holiday morn.
Gently entering the proper
room, they quietly take their place,
in ancient chairs with wobbly backs
and loose spindles with stories long
forgotten. Another day starts.
One foot in each world they straddle
their dreams, not willing to let go.
When eyes and hearts alight on boats
bobbing in the choppy blue bay
to take them on unknown journeys.
Whose boats are these, pilgrims wonder,
empty now, their owners ashore.
Fishers of men, will call to us
with nets ready for the next cast.
We’re caught, no sense in our struggling.