The silver drizzle is making ghosts of the hills,
the ruin’s limestone walls hulking presences,
the round tower a vortex into the unknown.
A bell’s footsteps comes clanging across the dawn,
sandals slap along the flags, creak of iron hinges
and the susurrus of monks gathering in the choir.
The voices, suddenly a deep brown river flowing,
fill the nave, flow sure and steady out into the valley
spreading their primal credo, a rich fertile soil.
The rain is everywhere: in the fields’ greenery,
a skim on the lichened stones, sweeping through the air,
through the lancet windows high above the chancel.
