Abbey Square cobbles are fists
under my shoes. I don’t miss them,
nor those mornings of organ-tuning,
the air slabbed with rising notes
of random length. Abrupt stops.
St. Werbergh’s Shrine sighing.
And I hadn’t thought about
candles lit in Chapel harbours,
bright glass gaze of angels, saints,
Choir’s wooded stalactite parade,
till I stood where branches arch
over this bluebell-peppered glade.
Trees touch fingertips in prayer.
Sunlight’s dapple dissolves words.
Air drifts in an incense of silence.
I am held in canopied sanctuary,
taste again that poise of space
that shimmers at the brink.