Complex Chapel (Without High Church)

That one smile
On that one face
That one irreducible place
To cause such mischief

That one time
On that one clock
That one irredeemable shock
To cause such mischief

That one sound
On that one wall
That one irretrievable last call
To cause such mischief

That one scent
From that one flower
That one irresponsible power
To cause such mischief

That one breath
On that one nape nerve
That irreplaceable verve
To cause such mischief

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Pictured (Without Being Framed)

I take photographs
To remind me of the light
To remind me of the season
To remind me of the vulnerability
To say to me
How good it would be if you were here
Sat, on this bench
As we sat on that bench, in Bilbao

Although today
At least here anyway
There are no flâneurs
There are no locals
Walking out to share a life
Dressed in their Sunday best
Deep in communal conversation
As though there really was no tomorrow

Of course, unlike some
We still have all, or at least most
Yes, for certain, some of our tomorrows
Which may well require a form of closer scrutiny
Perhaps a lazy, laconic, poetry video
Of the leaves, slowly drifting to the ground
At Buckfastleigh, or Buckfast Abbey
In the autumn of two-thousand-and-sixteen

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Breakout (Without Breakthrough)

Everywhere there is beauty
Then, from time to time
One steps into a quiet place
Where the light shines less brightly

Of course, by now
I choose not to, that is not on purpose
To visit the darkness too too often
But you know, love, love will have its way

Just as the moss grows
On the tarmacadam path
And the discarded leaves rot
Beside the forsaken branches

Could I just say, that there is room for two
On this fine, and sturdy bench
Constructed from concrete and oak
Fixed to the floor with galvanised brackets

You may sit here, to listen to the river
Also to absorb the aircraft noise from overhead
Which may once well have transported you
Back to the place of your birth

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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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