There is no bench to sit upon
To look directly at the back of the Abbey
Though I am able to tell you
That by turning slightly, and looking over my shoulder
I can see the substantial, gold-leaf, clock fingers
Which, even from this distance, I can make out
That they are saying that it is just after eleven-thirty
On this, fine, one might even say exquisite
Autumnal Saturday Morning
Of course there is noise, even the great Abbeys
Need the service of stand-by-generators
For those times of electricity power cuts
Once it might have been a water-driven turbine
Situated on the surging River Dart
Which flows alongside fairly briskly
But then, with such propensity
Of trees and fallen leaves
One might have thought
That a champion of biodiversity
Could have hatched a quieter form
Of extraction, extrapolation, and exploitation
Whatever, the birds still chirp and chatter
Enquiring children
Ask their parents all manner of questions
Some of which, the monks
Who will also have sat here
Would no doubt have been able to answer
With their very own
One hopes, well thought out
And ever more dignified, soulful responses
