THE ISLAND The one saddle and bit on the island We set aside for every second Sunday When the priest rides slowly up from the pier. Afterwards his boat creaks into the mist. Or he arrives here nine times out of ten With the doctor. They will soon be friends. Visitors are few. A Belgian for instance Who has told us all about the oven, Linguists occasionally, and sociologists. A lapsed Capuchin monk who came to stay Was first and last to fish the lake for eels. His carved crucifixes are still on sale. Our ship continues to rust on the rocks. We stripped it completely of wash-hand basins, Toilet fitments, its cargo of linoleum We can estimate time by a shadow Of a doorpost inching across the floor. In the thatch blackbirds rummaging for worms And our dead submerged beneath the dunes. We count ourselves historians of sorts And chronicle all such comings and goings. We can walk in a day around the island. We shall reach the horizon and disappear. -- Michael Longley