Latecomer

Are my words blasphemous
Or simply observations
With a sideways swipe
At the sadness of it all

I am writing of letting go
Whilst these rascals
Are surely simply hanging on

It is not on is it
To turn up at the very end
That doesn’t count as attendance
In anybody’s book

And certainly not in mine

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Logarithmic Rise And Fall

I sit quietly
Wait for the light to fade
I am in no hurry
My days work is done
The rest is playtime

I am settled
More so than expected
No anxiety
In visiting these parts
As there was in the past

That though could all be transitory
For tomorrow I venture closer
To the centre of the fault line
Nearer to the focal point
Of that previous past universe

I know I should not worry
What isn’t already forgotten
Is ever more certain to disappear
In the certain fullness of time
In the single pointedness of duty

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Over The Walls

Seven in the congregation
(Including moi)
Eight monks, plus the organist

We could have
A one-on-one communion
Except a man with dark glasses joins us

The old stooped monk is not present
And the new one, new to my sight at least, is bald
In the way I imagine cancer patients are

Besides the baldness
There is an awful lot of silvery grey
On parade in the choir stalls

With six men
And two women present
I wonder does man

Have more to fear
Or worry about than woman
Or are the ladies home cooking tea

The roof has nine crossed curved arches
Plus ten
Straight-across curved ones

But that is only in the knave
For sure
There will be more elsewhere

Is the lectern in the style
Of an eagle or an angel
And do they know that Donald Trump is in the country

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Unblock

Once more to the woods
For old times sake
Once more to send you greetings
From as far away as I can go

In dappled sunlight
With gates removed
And fences erected
I stop at the top

This year a different path
Yet still the fear of heights
Stops me veering off
For what I think would be a better view

I did take a photograph
Of the window and its shadow
Much as that snapshot
Of the leaves I framed

I think it is a new lamp
Which looks to be ideal
For reading and writing
I will confirm this tomorrow

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Fast Mover

I only just left the chapel in time
Just before the acting mother superior
Brought in her small but devoted flock
Earlier they had prayed
Before the burning candles
This then is their space numero duo
One of an altogether purer silence

I had sort of broken
Those quiet rules actually
Having found the Chapel
To be an ideal place to pen a poem
Which of course meant
Scrawling nib across paper
Though I made as little noise as possible

Though if I hadn’t have been on my own
I am sure I would have caused distraction
Which isn’t really fair is it
When I only come here once a year
The riverside walk has been closed off
And there is lots of Harris fencing
Waiting in the wings

Let’s hope to God that Health and Safety
Are not on the Benedictine’s case
For I fear that it stretches a good way back

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