I rubbed the mint between my fingers
Then smelt the tangy aroma
I was transported
To the gardens at Sewerby
Which of course led me to thoughts
Of the cricket field
And our walks, also our sitting there
The purifying scent also reminded me
Of how I have neglected the herbs
In our own garden
For it is not enough
To simply buy the cuttings
And the contemporary containers
One, so I see now
Must gift love, and care
If one is ever to understand
How to nurture nature…
Then back into the Abbey
For Sunday's Conventual Mass
Which to my surprise, though not entirely
(For I know of the pretence for providence)
Is a full congregation, of over fifty people
All the pews populated as the monks enter
For their main event of the week
I get a twinge in my elbow, as I write that
Part of me wants not to stay
For I don't in truth really belong
Nor do I even feel entirely comfortable here
No, I am happier, in the early morning half-light
With the minimalist, escapologist crowd
So I do leave:
I am taking someone else's space
Is how I justify my absenteeism, wasn't it always thus
