The Kin of Inis Mor

We stayed a night on an island off the coast of Ireland, on the west side of Galway Bay. There are three islands there; Inis Mór (IN-ish MORE) is the largest of the three. The west side of the Island is 300-foot bluffs that plummet into the Atlantic. The island slopes from the west side to the east (facing Ireland) and is a criss-cross pattern of grey stone fences and bright green squares of pasture land dotted with cottages.

When we were there the weather was calm, clear, and gorgeous. But much of the year (such as in February, when I was there last) the weather coming in off the Atlantic can be brutal. Yet here is this small fishing and herding town that keeps a community on an island dotted with ruins that go back thousands of years. It’s a fascinating place. So fascinating, in fact, that I was inspired to wax poetic.

The Kin of Inis Mór

Just past the boggy, hilly reach
Of Ireland’s emerald shores
Reclining in defiant pose
Of calm before the roar
As if the tempest, storm and gale
She might by will ignore
There lies our mother, we who are
The kin of Inis Mór.

Caressed by wind and sun and rain
Her face is soft and green
The cattle, goat and sheep attend
Her hair and skin to preen
Upon her bosom do they rest
When night and weather sore
Afflict all those who call her home
The kin of Inis Mór.

Upon her back the whipping rains
Etch lines across the stone
Like stripes of penitence, the strains
Our saviour took alone.
But she is bitten, clawed, and scratch’d
With cuts that show her core
To keep from searching, stinging pains
The kin of Inis Mór.

The granite hunks of rugged rock
While speaking not a sound
Of ancient warriors and clans
Write songs upon the ground
The stairs and towers whisper still
Of those who came before
To prove that we are not alone
The kin of Inis Mór.

By sunrise every day we leave
The soft caress of fern
We put the green of Eire to bow
And safety far to stern.
We seek uncertain fortune’s yield
To increase winter’s store
Depending on the lee she gives
The kin of Inis Mór.

On days the Lord is kind with wind
And gracious with the sun
Off to the west to graze by bluffs
Where white and gray and dun
The cormorants and seagulls fly
We take our flocks, and more:
We claim the wide Atlantic for
The kin of Inis Mór.

You ask us if the mainland by
Its quiet weather calls
If ever does temptation tug
With softer fields and squalls
To leave the blust’ry rocky isle,
Our posts on crumbled tors?
For naught we dare depart our kin,
Our mother, Inis Mór!

Yet sometimes at horizon’s edge
The younger ones can see
A greater, broader, fuller life
Than what they here can be.
And those who hear with heavy hearts
The fading of their oars
Pray safety in the greater storms
Than those of Inis Mór.

Whate’er the distance or the height
Or how the time has passed
The mother’s voice is fresh and strong
And with a grip so fast
It holds the anchor of their hearts,
Their mem’ry’s greatest store
That they were born and they shall die
The kin of Inis Mór.

So when the Lord with clarion voice
Will open up the tome
Of life and call her children up
To take their heavenly home
Then clothed again in Eden’s dress
Our mother those she bore
Will with a peace divine embrace
The kin of Inis Mór.

Then from the hearts of everyone
Shall pain and sorrow flee
And where the only tempest winds
The dancers’ feet will be
While drinking to the Father’s grace
We shall recall once more
The one who made us by the sea
The kin of Inis Mór.

-- emrys