The Island

Not an island filled with holes,
But named by gospels inked in gold.
Lindisfarne was once called holy,
By the monks that lived within it’s priory,
Their home cut off by raging seas,
But a causeway comes at half past three.
So when the English walked the pass,
To attend the Priory’s Sunday mass,
As they crossed to the island judged,
For doing sins and doing good,
The foul are taken, engulfed by waves,
And the saints make passage to go and pray.
So if you cross with a conscience ill,
The isle may take you at it’s will.

This is my I poem for the A to Z challenge.

My A-Z is based on Northumberland, and the myths and monsters that lurk within. You may want to read a couple other poems in my challenge to get the gist.

Well this ones about ‘Holy Island’ or lindisfarne, an island off the coast of Northumberland that can be accessed by a road at certain times of the day. It’s home to books called the gospels and I decided to turn it into a murdering island.

I know I’ve fell behind, but I promise to catch up