the abbey garden
an ornate setting
of pale wood and wrought iron
under over latticework woven, melded, beaten
into submission by a heavy hand
exposed to elements and its patina softens
roughly hewn roses nestled among
fine detail, the work of a tradesman
and an artisan.
there are gaps where the sunlight
reaches through and lovingly caresses
though the chill wind cuts an unforgiving
path through the sycamore
overhead and I shiver
beneath my borrowed serge.
my mind witters during this
contemplative seclusion, prayers not yet
fully formed but trivial thoughts –
butterflies which dance from one
merry bud to another.