Rub Of The Green (Without Calling Time)

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

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Revitalise (Without Revision)

It is almost November
The fallen leaves
Are amusingly blown
Scattered across the cobbles
The unsettled skies 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
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 me one extra hour for 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, 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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