A garden locked is my sister, my bride,
a spring locked, a fountain sealed.
Your shoots are an orchard of pomegranates
with all choicest fruits,
henna with nard,
nard and saffron, calamus and cinnamon,
with all trees of frankincense,
myrrh and aloes,
with all choice spices—
a garden fountain, a well of living water,
and flowing streams from Lebanon.
Awake, O north wind,
and come, O south wind!
Blow upon my garden,
let its spices flow.
Safe within these shores
I feel no conflict here
I feel my spirit soar
Within this sanctuary
There are no ghosts to haunt me
There is no blood upon this land
No power to make me fear
No hour of darkness here
All bathed in emerald
Out of the mist arise
I see the stones appear
A cross before my eyes
Iona, Iona, Iona…
— Iona, Iona (1990)
This is a metaphor of life on so many levels.
This image is so evocative; it touches me to my very core. Sometimes I am there in dreaming. Sometimes I am there in reality. Always, that exhilarating, terrifying feeling in my core – in my mind, in my heart, in my bones, in my kidneys.
He says: there is only one way. One way to death, one way to destiny.
She will fall to be lost in the abyss, and she will rise in indomitable flight. She will fly, or walk on air. Of course. Doesn’t it always turn out that way?