Iona
I am sitting in a departure lounge at Heathrow airport
reading poems about the island of Iona.
In a fortress of granite, glass and chrome,
a crossroads for travelers of the world,
I am thinking of small cottages and the wind-swept bones
of an ancient abbey, tumbling now to graceful, quiet ruin.
Heathrow is a kicked-over ant hill,
propelled by the chaos of a thousand purposes,
surging waves of departure and arrival.
I miss the relentless, organic motion of sea and wind.
Jets huddle outside in their concrete rookery
painted tail feathers pointing toward the sky they think they own.
But they lack the mastery of the bright oyster catcher
stitching effortlessly above the waves
warning me away from his favorite rock.
I want to go back to the islands
where bright houses cling like limpets above the water line.
I want to wake in the summer morning and sit on a bench
looking out at the sea,
spend days trying just to comprehend the incredible color of water and sky,
to make some sense of the clouds,
and worship the light as it sparks like flint off each wave.
Let me hang my clothes out to be dried by waving grass and skylark’s song.
I want to bundle into a thick sweater and walk the narrow road
that laces between the hills
negotiating my right-of-way with truculent ewes and their sweet-faced lambs.
Let me steal a few minutes in the afternoon to drink tea in the quiet garden
sheltered by stone walls laid 400 years ago
by weathered, deliberate hands.
I will touch the moss and tiny daisies growing in the cracks there,
smile at their patience because I know that, in the end, they will win.
I look up again from my book
as the concourse surges with people in shorts and sandals,
probably returning from some lovely Mediterranean resort.
I do not envy them. Instead
want to feel my cheeks grow pink and rough from the north Atlantic wind.
As time drags on the lounge begins to stir,
simmer like frustrated soup.
People swirl past with their bags of duty-free luxury:
whiskey, perfume and chocolates by the pound
We are buzzing bees longing to leave this hive,
anxious to journey away.
I want to turn back.
to hear the ferry’s warning
as it pulls away for the day’s last trek to the mainland,
escorted by wheeling gulls,
leaving me in the gusty sunshine,
waving goodbye from the shore
Tracy Meisky is a poet, writer, singer, songwriter and all-around boat rocker from way back. Feel free to look around, but if you break it, you bought it.