simonhlilly

Ystrad FFlur 2

one door in an empty field.
a pattern of stone,
the chantry coves.

clouds are sheep and cattle
drifting slowly out of sight.

but for the peace you would not know
poets and kings were buried here.

we cannot stay
but maybe never leave,
like the pilgrim stream
whispering prayers
on cool, light feet.

like the tinted copper beech
and the hollowed yew.

like the faith of thousands
and the recitation of the birds.

the green edict of grass
has covered all dissent.

a spiral stair ascends
into empty air.

the old names adhere somehow,
the slow erosion of autumn rains.

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