Rest (Without Rest)

And in this way I rested

By rising early

Taking tea, and biscuits

Sharing Vigils with the Benedictine Monks

Walking to the door

Beside the one, who twirled his rosary beads

Outside, in the new day's light

A short walk

To the Physic Garden

There to read the notes

And to rub the leaves of mint between my fingers

Then to retrace my path

To climb a few stone steps

Take a photograph

Of the Abbey, and the oak tree

From a slightly raised vantage point

Before returning inside

Taking my seat, writing a few words

Of praise

Of scorn

Almost with a complete

Lack of reasoned understanding

Even with the book of Lauds

Opened, resting, in the palm of my hands

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Later (Without Being Late)

Sunday morning Vigils

Also the clocks have moved 

By one hour, into winter-time

So indeed, two extra hours sleep

And three people

On the front benches already

The calling bells have been rung

Also there is an owl, joyously hooting

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Yours (Without Hours)

A man, in a long raincoat

I guess he is here, with his wife

Here, more for the recital

Than for the Vespers

They look like a couple

Of well-to-do European 

(Did we used to say foreign)

Reasoned, and cultured tourists

The bells chime to signify

Three minutes to go

A little bit like the last call

At the Theatre Royal

Yet with only five patrons

Thus far in the congregation

I don't expect there to be

Much, of a last minute rush

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Towards Brabeny (Without End)

It feels good to be on higher ground

It feels good to think of you, loving me

For now I can take in the vast horizon

I can countenance the cold wind

Ruffling my hair, and my papers

I can believe that, yes

Those rainclouds may bring rain

But not until the shafts of sunlight

On that faraway, seaward, elliptical skyline

Have lit up our day

No, neither the dull of the decaying ferns

Nor the white-death of the bramble

Can hold back the excitement

Nor the energy

Of the future

For the man who has found love

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Negative Potential (Without Power)

To put myself out there, alone

With the environmental waveforms 

Circulating and vibrating, to the tune

Of the exponentially raw passion

Such that in the search for this apparent stillness

It is the search for the unseen which is seen

It is the search for the not felt which is felt

Felt mostly by oneself

It is the beat

Of the bouncing psycho-rhythms

Which cycle through my body

Then, as one ventures, into the lower reaches

Those deeper features

Of love, of loss, of leverage, and of latitude

Criss-cross, and zig-zag their way

Over, and beyond, and before the gratitude

Such that to find a balance, in the stillness

To find a calm, in the seen, and in the unseen

To find love, felt or not felt, is one job of a thing

One job of a thing, all unto itself

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