One of my
abiding memories from a visit to the Skelligs, too many years ago now, is of
gannets moving to and fro in the air between us and the islands. Of all the
scenes I’ve ever witnessed, this was the most magical; it seemed we were
approaching an enchanted place, a rock fallen from Paradise. Apart from the
spectacular beauty of the spire-like Skellig Michael rearing heavenward out of
the ocean, the gannets, white scarves
drifting on thermals, gleaming in sunlight, looked like mythical creatures
freed from gilt cages to mesmerise any would be invaders.
To soar,
shining, across the heavens is an image of divinity. To waft effortlessly is an
attribute of a creature whose divinity is so ingrained that it is taken for
granted.
I came
across a gannet, its head disappearing into the sand, its wings broken like a
wrecked ship, yet its beak still pristine like a perfectly forged dagger, and
got a strong urge to write a poem about it. Not a very original idea: the
pointlessness of vanity when all too soon our beautiful heads disappear into
the soil.
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