Ascend the thousand stone
steps circling this wondrous

granite spike
beetling above
implacable emptiness,
black Atlantic thundering.

Puffins fling themselves
from ragged bluffs

the beehive houses
are tenanted only by gales.

It is a place marked
by God. Monks flocked
to this outpost of heaven

to worship, until
centuries of religion
fled in a frail
cockle boat.

Abandoned to winds
the spirituality is breathtaking.

He never absconded.

The horizon is a medieval vision
wild surf performs absolution.

Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist