The Isle

No ghosts haunt the island where the cedars meet the sand…

Be it through crucifix or crone, sacred is that land.

Wind hath flattened the ferns, 

And fire hath enforced its terms,

But steady stands The Isle,

Prevailing every trial.

The beach stones stack 

And the nights are black.

And chortle on, do the village youth.

The hazy dawns,

And dew-soaked lawns

Have witnessed many forms of truth.

Yes, no ghosts haunt the island where the cedars meet the sand…

Be it through crucifix or crone… sacred is that land.