I distinctly saw them
in my peripheral view
but dared not take my eye
off the rolling sea
or my hand from the wheel,
and harnessed to the safety line
I held our course on a beam reach,
and thought what a site
our little ship must have made
to our three mute spectators
looking on from the rocky cliffs
in the teeth of the gale,
and somehow their presence
assured me, though I confess
a feeing of exhilarated relief
as we ran to starboard
and surfed through Puffin Sound,
rounding the island
as the evening sun
set our wet clothes steaming,
and in the calmer water
I asked my old crewman
if he’d seen the figures
regarding us, and after a pause
he explained that no-one
had inhabited the barren rock since
the monastery was abandoned
in the twelfth century,
and as we passed close by
the lighthouse on the mainland
its bell sounded a lonely knell
that broke the awkward pause.
Years later, on land now
I came down
from a snow covered hill
and lunched among the ruins
of an old farmstead,
and in my reverie
sensed something familiar
about me, and recognised
the brooding presence
of three stone pillars;
perhaps they were arranged
in a similar attitude,
but a pervading assurance
returned to me as I resumed
the homeward journey,
and after only a few paces
my phone rang
and you told me there’d been
an accident, and no-one knew
if she was dead or alive,
and all I could see
in my mind’s eye
as I raced back over the mountain
were the lone sentinels,
their sinister scrutiny
charging each pace
delivering me to her
side, hurt but safe.
Unholy trinity,
I hesitate to think
what augers
the next appearance
of the three,
and whether I’ll be ready,
or whether my sun
will be settling
towards the horizon,
and wise men
and shepherds will be
following some other star.
Or is it simply a bit like
waiting for a bus?
You wait all day…
John H Davies
9th June 2011
