Kirki’s Island
I arrived
looking for a new land,
a harbour
after a long storm.
The island was beautiful.
Sunset at Port Erin —
the sky opening slowly,
as if oblivion were possible.
Early mornings
when the light rose quietly
and the air held its breath.
Pebble shores.
Cold water.
The Calf of Man
watching from a distance.
Everything felt
ancient,
patient,
kind.
Men moved slowly there.
They laughed easily.
They forgot the shape of the homeland —
not the sea,
but why they once crossed it.
She appeared
as part of the island itself.
Eager.
Attentive.
Ready to help me continue my journey.
Her hands were open.
Her words measured.
Nothing felt forced.
Everything moved smoothly,
as if it had always been this way.
Then
Kirki changed her voice.
Sometimes gentle.
Sometimes generous.
Sometimes sharp enough
to remind you
who listened.
She spoke to one
about the other.
She rearranged trust
without touching it.
And slowly
people stopped recognising themselves
in one another.
At first,
nothing sounded different.
Then —
one day —
they began to snort.
Kirki took good care of them.
She made sure the pigs were fed.
Well fed.
Useful.
Quiet.
The island stayed beautiful.
That was the danger.
I stayed longer than I should have.
Mistaking calm
for safety.
Order
for truth.
So I left.
Without noise.
Without accusation.
Back to the open water —
hard,
demanding,
honest.
Looking
for another harbour
where people still remember
how to be human.
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