Off of a far and lonely Northern shore,
An island sits,Jutting out of the waves by the high tide,
Squatting on the sand at low.
Arctic storms rail against its sides,
And hurricane winds rake their claws against its face.
The island is a rocky point,
Bereft of any earthen flesh
Save for a small oasis of green
At its very peak,
Where sits a small pine
That reaches out for the mainland,
With its branches, in supplication.
This island looks to be alone,
Ravaged by water, wind, and dust,
Scoured grey and grim,
Slowly aging, thirsting for the main.
Yet, if you peer at its feet,
At the low tide,
Small pools of life look up to their leader,
That keeps them sheltered from the cruel elements.
Anemones, barnacles, crabs, limpets, and starfish,
All gather in vibrant colours,
Purples, reds, oranges, greens, and blues,
At the granite’s gray-scale base.
And as your eyes rise to the top of the monolith,
You will espy, at the foot of that small and strangled pine,
A small nest,
Where a tiny wren has made her home,
Sheltered from the gales,
Hidden from the raging rains and bitter cold,
Kept safe by the roots of the protective arbour.
She was buffeted about by a winter storm, one year,
Flung far from her home in warmer climes.
Tired, wing-sore, wind-worn,
She alit the shoulders of that stern island,
And found the pine,
Its branches reaching for the mainland.
The wren reached her wings out to the island,
And the two connected,
In need of each other,
Whilst the storm rallied about them.
The island at first doubted
Whether the wren would stay, and
Be tempted back to her proper place,
Abandoning the rock to its lonely thoughts.
The wren simply nestled deeper into the roots and rock,
Determined not to give up her safe abode:
For a snug and dry home,
Solid and supported,
Comforted and cared,
Is worth to keep.
And so if you go to that wild and far-flung corner,
Of the Northern coast,
And find that lonely isle,
You will espy that loyal wren,
And know that each has the other.