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, 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, 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 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

And scattered, across the cobbles

The unsettled sky 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

And 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 one extra hour to 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, writing a few words

Of praise

Of scorn

Almost with a complete

Lack of reasoned understanding

Even with the book of Lauds

Opened, 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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