Standing stoically, atop Cronk ny Arrey Laa

where scree and summit meet the southern sky.

The stone inscribed with WH Gill’s words overlooks

The calloused, captivating landscape. It is truly exposed

To the elements, above where the gulls choose to soar.

Yet it endures, and holds the words of a hymn

I’ve read many times before.

A hill harbouring history, from many ages gone before.

Balladoole’s soil concealed secrets and relics, things that once were afloat.

For further under the earth, another treasure

Safely harboured, a long and laden Viking boat.

The man and woman buried with their ship, bound forever to

Look out upon the sea from whence they came.

While sitting amongst the stones up there, gazing down across Gansey,

I wonder, what were their names?

Overlooking the deep blue bay, the prominence of Bradda Head.

Mr Milner’s monument protruding proudly, its foundations strong

And steadfast. The hillside is brightest in high summer. The butter

Yellow of blooming gorse carpeting the lea, fringing the well worn

Trails winding to the tower. I stop, sit and inhale. Smelling the gentle

Coconut scent from the golden flowers. As I watch the rabbits graze,

I unknowingly while away the hours.

Sheltered by craggy cliffs climbing steeply up either side,

The pebbles and shells on Fleshwick beach are caressed

By the gentle tide. Gleaming sea glass speckled between the

Dark stones, natural viridescent jewels in a sea of monotonous grey.

Manannan’s cloak of mist rolls down the slopes around me,

The sky becoming overcast and moody. Most would think

This weather gloomy, likely retreat, but to me it is a perfect day.

Nestled at the foot of South Barrule, the reservoir of Cringle

Reflects the beauty surrounding it. A single trout kisses the surface and

The ripples spread across the still water. The wind picks

Up. Its whispering to the pines and spruce, bidding them

“Bend to my will” as it whips the weak leaves away.

Refusing to be defied, it howls and commands the trees to bow.

They heave sighs in reply, swaying but not surrendering.

Their resolute roots run deep here, as do mine.

These magical places are keepers of my solitude and sanity.

Escapes, where I go to brood, to feel and to be alone.

They have seen my emotions, to tears of joy and grief I have succumbed.

A piece of my heart, there in all of them lives. It beats softly

To the metre of rain falling on the slopes of Snaefell.

Steady and rhythmic, a summoning drum. My home

Forever calls to my wandering soul, and to this call

I’ll always come.

By Jordanne Kennaugh