The rush of gentle waves over sloping sands,
the great press of sorrow - always tomorrow.
A full breath of sunlight, the sea-sky is full
of scattered islands, the Hebrides of old.
Daily they offer prayers for me on Iona -
over the tomb of King Cináed mac Ailpín.
The sun is radiant behind them: a heaven
of halos shining down on Rèilig Odhrain.
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