The Priory

The evenings emerald curtains pull across the chasing darkness, the ever setting sun and rising moon, perfect weighted to arc around, fling around, from day to night, sprung by the repeating action of the ever falling planets the Priory sundial marks it’s hours in shadows not in light.

Under arches returning Squires sheltered from unholy horrors, dreams of bloody pilgrimage, baying shouts of hounds of hate, the rage of dogs of war, the hermit in cold English cell no conflict in the air or soil, no scimitar to break the skull and on a wall the cross beam hilt of Heaven’s waiting sword,
a Christ outstretched looked down each day,
and whispered in the night.

The black swan on the Priory pond had Eucharist bread from Abbot’s hand now foetus bent and folded neck as ice thickens every sound that rides on the wind horses of century uttered prayers and freshly gild from yellowing sun the handcut stone of cloister walls, on prayer drenched grass in late afternoon, shadows pave the Stations Off the Cross and never leave stigmatered marks.