Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart
Click on photo to enlarge.
You, the favourite bloom of St Moluag
(he who pipped Columba to Lismore’s shore)
who ranged Rosemarkie’s red promontory,
seeking his personal white martyrdom.
At your petals’ tip is a nectar drip:
a signal for the reapers to begin.
Once, you colonised Apollo’s fair lands,
but made fresh conquest from Elysium,
establishing yourself in this terrain;
settling in the Land of Picts, as Bog Star:
light in the darkness of Dalriada.
Your chalice-shaped flowers, honey-fragrant,
scent craggy coastlines, where soft haar descends.
You feistily commune with sharp night frosts.
Your subtle venation reminded saints
of Christ’s stripes, or of their green island home;
Moluag preferred your stamens
to the crowns of all those cremated kings
whose smoke ascended from The Hill of Fire.
Sun of Lismore in Alba; Shining One:
he was determined to take root, like you.
You were transplanted; he was translated.
You were pervasive as that white hot faith.
Until today, I’d never heard of you,
but now I seem to see you everywhere.