Sat (Without Silence)

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

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Nothing (Without Anything)

It is oh so so difficult
To remember you
When you offer nothing whatsoever in return

Though, as if coming here
To sit beside falling water
Would do anything, but add
To the sorrow of separation

I once was a complicated soul
Yet, right now, I don't believe
That I ever did deny that
Although, yes, you might well say

That I have become
Even more deeply enamoured
With the after-effects of duplicity
In my attempts at creative writing

But, inside
I feel to be a somewhat gentler soul
You see, I am happy
To sit here beside the river

To know that somewhere behind me
The star-shaped leaves
Are drifting, like angels, to the ground below
To let everyone know

That once our love most definitely touched
What oh so so many modern dreamers
Today still dream of

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Gathering (Without Departing)

In that instant
Of hearing that sweet voice
Then I too
Wanted to sing

I too
Wanted to be able
To express
My joy with this life

A nun
With her iPad
She was the first person
Into Conventual Mass

I had watched her
Walk across the concourse
In the first light
Of the brand new day

The bells tolled
Close to the gathering time
And I remembered
My last time of leaving this place

I had heard then their welcoming sound
Though at quite some distance
For I loaded my car
And oh, I so so ignominiously departed

I did not know then that I might return
But I have
And I may do so again
And again

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Two More (Without Two To Follow)

It is approaching five-forty in the morning
There are two Monks here already
As a short peel of bells sound
Two new visitors enter, they sit on the front row
One to either side of the walkway
Two young men; one white, one coloured
Together we waited, in stuttered silence
For the first act of the day to begin

Two latecomers joined the congregation
We were six men now
But only I, had entered from the inner quarters
Vigils proceeded, with meticulous precision
Each Monk seemingly knowing their part
Of the week-worn routines
And the seamless stepped-out sequences
Of suggestion, and response

And of further suggestions, and more responses
And of readings
Even one from the Book of Wisdom
Then one from where I know not, but which spoke
Of God having given love in his own image
And of having gifted us Jesus
To make up for the disobedience of Adam
And his indiscreet apple biting

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Woken (Without Painkillers)

It is 05:24 when the bells begin to call us for Vigils
I have not had the best of night's sleep
I dreamt, many times, of being confused
In the rearrangement of my poetry

And I do, quite literally, mean, seeing the text
On the page; trying to move it
From one place to another place
Mostly to no avail, because more often than not
The words decided that they did not wish to be moved

I woke early, at just after 04:30 British Summer Time
I spent quite some time massaging my arm
Feeling for the aching parts, stretching out the muscles
Manipulating the tissue
As if somehow to aid the circulation

I do hope that my elbow is going to get better
At least I do have the feeling; I am able to massage
And to write about my visit to the Abbey at Buckfast
Or at Buckfastleigh, as many of the words deign to say

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