This is a folk tale I read that attracted me in the way that subjects for
poems do, so I made a narrative poem of it -

Heathen Cliff

As great cliffs rise round Iceland, so
they tower round Scotland's northern isles
and northern mainland's half known coast,
like Orkney seen beyond Thurso,
pale turquoise, wave-frothed, grey and white,
a solidness out of the sea.
The cold cliff's pinnacles and caves
demand experienced sailors' crew
and a strong boat, held firm in calm
while the rock rests from the high wave.

Or men may tackle from above,
from windswept shorn grass,flowered grit
with ropes scale down its rugged plane.
For there are seabirds there, and eggs
in cavities, pockets, on ledges,
and in the old communities
of predatory economics,
the crofter-fishermen would climb
to gannets' harm, where it is known
St Kilda's sustenance came from.
In Iceland also there lived Trolls.

Taking the part of birds, who shared
their domiciles, the Trolls dislodged
many Icelandic huntsmen from
their roped descents to plunder homes
wet wings regarded as their own.
The ropes were cut and twisted. Men
crashed down to the upcrashing foam
while from each cave rang out the droll
amusement of its mechante Troll,
and people grew to fear the Trolls.

Then people feared the Trolls, windblown
and made their Bishop come along
to exorcise those Trolls from where
they ruled the cliff. High over sea
on a bright day when Trolls seemed scarce
and fear quite heathen, they rehearsed
their rigmarole with robes and crosses,
blessing the cliffs, turning their curses
on the Trolls' homestead caves. They prayed
with candles, incenses and parade,
singing and calling out, "Begone!"
while all the islanders looked on.

As the steep path grew rockier yet
the Bishop paused to gain his footing
and a sound boomed out from the cliff
unhappily and firmly shouting
in accents all those locals knew:
"Bishop, that's far enough to go.
Even the wicked need a home
and we are wicked, that we own
but we are here and here would stay.
Bishop, please take your faith away!"
All round the rocks a chorus moaned:
"Bishop, the wicked need a home!"

The Bishop, whether wise or frightened
we do not know, said, "Troll, quite so.
From Heathen Cliff (I name it now)
we will depart," and went, enlightened.

Sally Evans