My brother St Ronan gave me
the first fulmar of spring, but when
he praised my legs as I prayed

something screamed louder
than a storm beach of seals,
touched closer than the snugness

of a bed among rocks. I would not
have it: set sail, becoming
the flat earth's edge, living on guga

and cress, telling my prayers
by the light of a cormorant lamp,
its pentecostal tongue

its own wick. In its oily glare
nothing is illuminated.
Shall I preach to the birds?

I have seen the fork-tailed petrels
walk on water. It is no wonder
the miracle would be to see them

walk on land: a dozen yards
from shore they are wrecks,
lost for want of the ground

giving way. What, if I preach
to the birds, should I promise them
more than they have? The petrels

nest on the waves, an egg
under each wing. Fall
and ascend. I go down

easy into the earth, rise
again to the wispy tuft
of a shag's nest under

my picked-clean ribs.