Sunday, 20 September 2015

Chicory


Abbaye de Beauport Bretagne



High arches of lost grandeur
Remain, unattached to roofs,
Empty of glass but enough:
Imagination fills the holes.
Medicinal plants grow with vigour
Through traces of cloister,
Wind sighs through leaves
Bringing sound to stones
Imbibed with deep tranquillity.
Our modern minds feel a peace
We seek. Were the monks at ease?
Did their faith, care of souls,
Husbanding the soil,
Give sufficient purpose?

Four wooden sheds edge the garden
Insignificant at first amongst
The quadrants of flowers, herbs
And wild grasses. They stand
With no symmetry or clear design:
Only as symbols of human needs.
One shows tools which tilled the earth
Another, a saint's shrine for wonder;
The door opens of the third to luxury,
Satin cushions, gold framed pictures
And a book left idly by: our desire
Made manifest for ease and beauty.
The final door remains shut
With only peep holes, to glimpse
Objects, shapes, forms, of secret
Thoughts, of darker possibilities.