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.
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