Revitalise (Without Revision)

It is almost November

The fallen leaves

Are amusingly blown

And scattered, across the cobbles

The unsettled sky clouds drift slowly

Before  occasionally opening, to allow

The warmth of the sun to fall upon me

I am sat in the Lavender Garden

At Buckfast Abbey

And just now I have to squint

To shield my eyes from the bright sunlight

The long shadows, from the herbs

And the flowers edge towards me, they edge

Towards disappearing altogether actually

Shortly I will move into the chapel

Or maybe I will go there

After Conventual Mass

Which today will take place a little later

Because for one thing it is a Sunday

Also because, sometime during the night

Someone gifted one extra hour to my sleep

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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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