I stood above the sea today,

In the grass and on the stones.

My boots are thin and frustrating,

Like walking in water balloons,

Squelching and spitting on

The beauty of the morning.

There are towers marking channels

Like a titan’s middle finger,

Or maybe it’s the pointer.

If I lose track of the time,

This peninsula becomes an island,

And I don’t get to go home

After the tide comes home,

Or maybe it’s on holiday.

They call you Holy Island

Because someone built a church on you

A very long time ago,

Thought you closer to Heaven

Than Edinburgh.

Lindisfarne the semi-ground.

Lindisfarne the Holy Land.

I want to drink the water that

Twice-daily drives away your shore.

I want to take you with me.

The rain and ruins can stay behind.