by John Stocks
There would always have been beauty.
The potent benefice of sunset
Would have fallen on the blood-red tide:
The dismembered limbs, hacked heads
At Martyrs Bay
And on the bronzed faces of tourists
Clicking Canons back to Mull and Oban
Or the faces of the grieving mothers
With sons lost in the mud of Flanders.
At twilight, pagan and pilgrim
The roar from the ocean’s mighty swell,
There will always be beauty here.
And one morning from the edge of time
Seascapes at Iona, Scotland
Copyright © 2009 by
illustrations researched by the editor