Rievaulx Abbey

Trees of drifting wood smoke blues and

Deep green shadows misting the ragged grass.

Flash of pheasant and

Thud of autumn gun in the loose leafed woods

Pock mark the declining day,

And the rain-washed year

Fades like a sun stained cloth

In the rich fathomed purple silk of darkness

Rising, buttressed, from the November land,

A shaft of sun burns green between the walls,

And fades like a snuffed out whisper.

And we are rocked

On the intoned plainchant of the rumbling tide,

Pilgrims under a pale sky,

Dreaming of home and crumpets.