Ballindoon Priory
Cattle grazing silent as jellyfish;
mid-summer's trees standing listless
in the pools of their shadows;
the ruined priory perched
between meadow and lake, sleeping;
its dead congregations in its arms.
Scoured of ostentation,
stripped to white-lichened limestone,
ceiling of Irish sky
and freed from the half-light of medieval nave,
austere rites,
babble of non-native tongue.
No longer its own prisoner,
but open:
earth to heaven, heaven to earth.
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