For how many months
did the stonemason toil at this
archway of smooth grey stone
which looms before me at
the pinnacle of irregular steps,
a sombre facade which
belies the warm and fertile
soil hiding within. A beacon
for those whose past is a tangle
of wild and untended thoughts,
weeds which struggle to find purchase
in the starved earth, gasping for nutrients.
The way ahead is lined
with ornamental cherry trees in bloom,
the path blanketed by a layer -
paper thin petals grown heavy
with the day’s drizzle of rain,
fallen. A plaque above denotes
the generosity of one devout spirit,
eternally grateful for Her
welcoming embrace and
the stained glass Virgin bestows her
beatific smile
upon those who pass beneath
the great stone construction.
A glance to the left reveals
gossamer-winged butterflies
lighting upon turnsole,
pink and blue. Salvia divinorum,
the seer’s sage clusters
about the wheel of a rusted barrow
from which fragrant culinary herbs tumble
silvery and sweet and begging to be tasted upon
the tongue of this humble servant
striding toward Salvation.
the arch
the abbey garden
an ornate setting
of pale wood and wrought iron
under over latticework woven, melded, beaten
into submission by a heavy hand
exposed to elements and its patina softens
to green.
roughly hewn roses nestled among
fine detail, the work of a tradesman
and an artisan.
there are gaps where the sunlight
reaches through and lovingly caresses
my notebook
though the chill wind cuts an unforgiving
path through the sycamore
overhead and I shiver
beneath my borrowed serge.
my mind witters during this
contemplative seclusion, prayers not yet
fully formed but trivial thoughts -
butterflies which dance from one
merry bud to another.
the grove
Nestled
a jewel among monoliths
and village clamour and clang
invites us to meander
in tranquility and ancient
rite.
Lichen and moss, all
phosphorescence and cushion
adhering to
trees, tall and stout and
fallen, rotting in sweet
langour, resigned.
Soil,
sun-warmed embracing
bare feet avoiding bramble
and blackberry and
tender shoots struggle
amidst the great and mighty,
choking ferns
abundant.
Sugary
fragrance, dizzying clutches
tightly watering
the mouth in juicy
berry-laden abandon, low
boughs bending earthward in
exhausted burden.
Birds of many coloured
feathers pluck
the overripe fruit, converse
gaily and spread renewed
life and bounty
elsewhere.
14th January
Cecelia,
I’m afraid I’ve done nothing more productive than to pen a few lines of poetry. I do so enjoy fixing an image in my mind and then painting that picture with words that others might read someday. Tomorrow, we arrive at the Island of the Temple People, in time for the Festival of Carmentia which I understand will be a grand affair. I should imagine there will be much fodder with which to compose future verses. The verse below begins with such a comforting image, but I think you will find that it does not end quite so.
A Cottage Garden
I dream of a cottage with a garden
just like the one my
grandparents had. They were so
content to sit. We might
sit as they, where my roses
might awaken gloriously each morning
and lavender bloom so
many colours and fragrances vying for
attention amongst your
practical and sensible vegetables
planted
in neat rows. And the beans
are tied up with string, tall canes
securing ivy, small and ravenous, oh
it grows so rapidly I cannot contain
it as it scrambles every which
way over lattice that you were
too busy to put up.
Your
Elizabeth
