Canticle on the Wild Atlantic Way
by Nikki Robson
Holy Mary, Mother of God, she’s in the Rockery.
Sandstone gleams gold at the feet of the Virgin,
upright in a coffin with Snow White glass front,
nailed in from wind sweep and horizontal squall.
Blue-cloaked and resplendent, she’s eager for flounder,
craves lobster, wild salmon and pollock and trout;
interned mediatrix, she faces a wall.
She yearns to be bedded instead in the Chancel,
to nose past the gable to the foot of Sliabh Liag
so her wide eyes can pilgrim immeasurable seas.
Entombed in the garden, her gaze on a sparrow,
she twitches for feathers or sticky petunia,
a sand-scratch or salt-sniff from coves far below.
Ave Maria, Our Lady of Sorrows.
Her half-smile strains stony,
indignity shrouding beatified bliss.