Tuesday, 22 July 2008


They spread the blue and white cloth
on the stone slab.
Ox-eye daisies mass in the corner
in bendy ranks.
Beneath the slab
bones of a thirteenth century monk
whiten in their dust.

They sink a bottle of wine
into the pool.
Yellow water irises stand tall
along its edge.
In this place
travellers to the Abbey
washed their blistered feet.

They stand their upturned glasses
in the stone trough.
Purple-blue harebells tremble in cracks
in ancient stone.
This the coffin
wherein, centuries ago, lay
the Abbey Prior.

Tiny ferns grow in the
ruined walls.
Mown lawns lie sheltered from the wind
and all is still.
Here for years
the monks would tread their daily measured
walk towards God.

They eat their chicken and ham
and drink their wine.
They suck slices of grinning melon
and blood-red fruit.
They laugh and sing;
the ancient walls echo back
in the evening light.

1 comment:

Dominic Rivron said...

In answer to your question: yes, you did!