by Gloria Viglione

I dreamed a dream
with eyes wide gazing
into veils of green
and more green
until a pale verdant mist
hung at the horizon
as earth became sky
and sky leaned close enough
to cloak a wildly shining sea.

I dreamt of ancient hills
holy underfoot
drizzle drenched
and windswept
stone upon stone
mossened and moistened
under mountainous clouds
and rarified breakthroughs
of fresh glory.

I dreamt a land thick in legends
where pilgrims trace the
Celtic kings and chieftains
along the Street of the Dead
and solemn chants
still whisper across
the martyr’s white strand beach
over stone walls, crumbling,
draped with fuchsia.

Even now a morphic resonance
murmurs through my bones
as I too sing the sacred chants
through fields of oat grass and thistle
and call on the Divine
to steady my unruly will,
ask for guidance at every
beveled turn, quicken my steps
with silent offerings on my lips
and beg to stay awake
in my greening soul.

Editor’s Note: Gloria’s poem was inspired by an 8-day pilgrimage on Iona.
This small island off the coast of Scotland has been a popular retreat destination
for decades. The island’s spiritual impact on the poet’s life manifests itself in her poem.  

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