Jay Young's Pilgrimage Sonnets

Dialogue at Ninian's Cave
	At Ninian's cave "Oh Falconer," I prayed, "I'm here, I'm listening. Please speak to me." "You've lost the art to listen. You're afraid." "I'm not. Pray speak, that I may hear, and see." "I grant I've been too busy, year by year, The world demands all that I have to give. So come, I've not much time. Now let me hear Your truth, your wisdom. Tell me how to live." "You couldn't take it. You're but ill-prepared." "I'm fine. I've withstood shocks. I'm tough enough." "I'll know you're listening when your soul is bared." "So how do I do that? Can't be too tough." "Beneath your surface self God speaks your core. Hear and you'll die, transformed like smelted ore."
			The interior of St. Ninian's cave, photo taken in the 1950's.

	St. Cuthbert's Island
			Low tide, now dark, by step-stones in moon-glow, The Northern Cross suspended overhead, I choose my way through ebbing tidal flow: This night St. Cuthbert's Island is my bed. The stinging wind along sea surface sings, As darkening clouds over the windstream stride, And high above these earthly wanderings Bright Mars, the stars and Moon steadfastly glide. As rising tide creeps in at every shore In shrinking isledom I sit facing east. The rising sun throws wide the opening door And serves in glorious light a pilgrim's feast. Through contemplation, soul refreshed, I rise, Committed sure to seek God's Truth through Christ.
	St. Cuthbert's Island, with cross, as seen from Lindisfarne, the Holy Island. The coast of Northunberia is in the background. Cuthbert used to withdraw to this island for prayer and mediatation. Jay followed that custom, spending a solitary night there. This sonnet was one of the results.

Compline
	In Lindesfarne as early night grows deep Into St. Mary's church we pilgrims wend To mark the end of day, our souls to keep Through night, while sleep our tired bodies mends. The nave is dark, the choir dimly lit. We face each other from the choir pews, Stone Norman walls surround us as we sit In space made sacred by long years of use. Elizabeth recites the ancient Word And we respond in choral voice as one, Just as the Abbot once the monks answered. In reverential calm Compline is done. And succoured by the Grace we dearly crave We pass into the night by ancient graves.
			The gate to St. Mary's church, Lindisfarne. This church is very likely on the site of the original monastic church founded in the 600s by St. Aidan. Portions of the current church date back to the Saxon era, over 1,000 years ago.

	Dawn at Dun I
			The first faint glow of dawn is ample light For striding east Iona's one paved road, Enough to climb the stile and to sight The pathway west through pasture sheep have mowed. Then over fence again where no clear way Proceeds, and faced with Dun I's footing rock Straight up the course cliff face by light still gray I clamber on by ledge and dim outcrop. And halfway up a crossing path appears The rise more gentle, easy now to track, But here the wind's a force that stabs, and shears The shrubs, maintains constant attack. The gale permits scant peaceful reverie As morning sun breaks through atop Dun I.
	Dun I, the highest hill on Iona

The Synod of Whitby
	Within his realm King Oswy felt the tension Between the Church of Canterbury and Rome, And Celtic monks, and from this apprehension He called in his advisors from their homes. Power unexercised withers and dies; Judiciously imposed, power accrues. Ineptly spent, prompts people to defy, Outside one's state, mere influence can use. The final tool of influence is force, But Oswy couldn't force his mind on Rome. As well might try to break another's horse, And, meeting called, result must strengthen throne. Ere anyone at Whitby had his say, Was King's course fixed before he set the day?
			St. Hild, abbess of Whitby at the time of the famous confrontation between the Celtic and the Roman church

	St. Columba's Bay
			A two-mile hike by road, Machair and trail Leads to Columba's Bay where curragh beached, And monks waded ashore to pit their frail Selves 'gainst the unknown, their mission reached. A narrow strand, bounded by rocky hills, Pebbles and rocks lead up to grassy bank. The lovely stones quickly a pocket fill As plentiful as Blessings, God be thanked. And here monks settled, built and farmed and prayed, Extended out their influence abroad, And gathered pebbles which we see arrayed, Set in the Abbey floor, tribute to God. Finding delight in these small bits of stone, We're with those monks, nor walk this beach alone.
	The pilgrims walk in silence toward Columba's Bay on Iona

Ceiliedh in Glasgow
	The band is two accordions and a drum. The dancers step and spin the ancient dance, Down the line and back where they start from, With smiles, laughs, a furtive flirting glance. The room is warm with goodwill, trust and fun, Waltzes, jigs and reels uplift our souls. The feeling lingers when the dance is done As we grab coats and step into the cold. But outside there is no such sacred bond. People are guarded or hostile, drunk, unkind. A woman questions me - I don't respond. "At least say 'yes' or 'no'," she says. "D'ya mind?" But what would Christ have said had He been there? What courage does it take Christ-like to dare?
			Street scene in Glasgow

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