The cliffs are jagged,
the sea churns below,
gray clouds spill across the sky—
a heavy, endless silence.

The land holds its breath
as it watches the waves
pull and release
the bones of the world.

I walk the worn paths,
stone underfoot,
feeling the weight of history
in the wind that never stops.

There are no roads here
but the ones that are carved
into the land
by the hands of time.

The light is different—
pale, cold,
almost strange—
like it has forgotten
what it was meant to warm.

But here, in the quiet,
there’s a kind of knowing,
a truth that doesn’t need words—
the island speaks it softly,
with each gust of wind,
each crash of surf,
each slow, patient shift of the earth.

-M. S Chandler