In a reflection for the final week of Easter, a Scottish writer finds the roots of his poetry are closely entangled in his deepest spiritual experiences

How do poems happen? The answer is that I don’t know, and ­possibly never will know, not fully. Perhaps the truth is that I don’t want to know: I like the fact that something in this over-understood and tied-down and labelled world is left a mystery. All of it is a contradiction: weeks and even months can pass without a ­single poem happening; then for no apparent reason I will go through a meteor shower of words, and several will be born.

I do know that poems happen more often on the island of Iona, that place which has been my spiritual home from childhood days. It’s the place which became important to my mother after she experienced great personal tragedy in her life; the finding of Iona and her finding of faith were inseparable. Then it became the island to which she took us as a family over the course of many summers; after that it was where my half-sister Helen was Justice & Peace worker for the Iona Community, and for a time the place where I would see her for a few days each year. Helen’s reputation went before her, and I was proud to bask in the reflected glory. Then finally it became the place for creative writing courses, and last of all, and to this day, the island where my partner Kristina and I lead the Celtic Christian retreats we have come to love so much.