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, then writing a few words

Of praise
Of scorn
Almost with a complete
Lack of reasoned understanding
Even with the book of Lauds
Opened and 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 Europeans
(Did we used to say foreigners)
Yes, they appear to be reasoned, cultured tourists

The bells chime to signify
That there are 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
Which 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, to be left all unto itself

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