Sunday, June 5, 2011

Tintern Abbey

The ancient entry is polished daily
by whispering feet and careful tongues.
Only whispers live here now.
No one profits of the acoustics,
as if they fear direct retribution
From the Holy Mother perched on the West wall.

A placid strait of green sweeps before the alter,
swirling around jagged islands of once proud columns,
a sea which Man or more may stroll toe-to-heel.
The walls seem scaled, the plump fish
Which nourished mind, stomach and soul for centuries
Content to wallow in the valley’s shallow spring.

To stand in its belly, ears alert to
the sun’s arrival in a flock of sparrows,
eyes anticipating the tingle of the approaching wind
through the lilacs you smelled upon entering
this outcrop of Man’s immortal soul,
Is to stand pleasantly corrected.


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