They travel, seeking solace,

to an island between

vast reaches of sea and sky.

Ynys Enlli,

a retreat beyond treacherous waters,

away from a turbulent mainland;

sacred place

where language and beliefs

of centuries, like driftwood,

are cast on scanty soil,

and twenty thousand saints,

so they say,

lie buried.

No shrine –

just a sanctuary of seals and shells,

rocks and gorse,

stonechat and kittiwake;

dark nights, peace shattered

by wailing shearwaters –

desperate cries from disturbed spirits

of lost pilgrims.

They come, not to be cured

in holy waters,

but to dwell within sight

of things that truly matter.