Through dawn`s early mists in bygone days

St. Conal`s bell would haunting peal,

Echoing on softly lapping waves

From the sacred island of Inniskeel.

It called to the Christian villagers there

In Narin, across Gwebarra Bay,

To come and kneel with the monks in prayer

For faith and health and to bless the day.

Each morning the ebbing tide`s retreat

Exposed an emerging sandy track

Out to the island`s monastic heath

Over salt-pooled sand, through purple wrack.

Engraved Cross Stones and St Conal`s Well

Lured pilgrims from throughout the land

Seeking faith in its hallowed cells,

A haven from Vikings and pirate bands.

The setting sun`s last blood red rays

Shimmer on the rapidly-rising swell

As Neptune again reclaims the isle

Which turns to purple at this knell.

In the gloom of its medieval walls

The ghostly monks file shuffling by,

Perhaps they`ll say a prayer for us

But its time to leave now - you and I,

While history, myth and mystery steal

Through this holy island of Inniskeel.

updated by @fred-mcilmoyle: 10/16/17 11:26:26PM