Find as far inland as Kintyre can allow,
map back to an almost-anywhere dot.
Out of seasight. Still, on clouded nights,
watch Rathlin’s lit pattern censer past.
A little industrial structure.
One bog-footed cave built for burning.
All rabbit shit, trotting-in lost sheep,
broken curves open to host brackening rain.
A dripped-on Alice, shrunk on Lindisfarne,
I’ve been lost in cathedralled constructions.
Huddered far down there, I’ve kneeled,
keened for this clamber-kirk’s closer womb.
© Beth McDonough