From here, the generosity of grief,
the soft embrace of unworthiness
that filled the cold stones of discipline
is unreachable. The roar of tyres
and the clatter of wheels on tracks
hold us in restless anxiety.
But the stones rise; the seas are parted
and pilgrimage becomes possible.
To step across the blank sands and feel
the winds blow away the city sounds
is to enter a pruned and scoured world
where the scratch of quill on vellum cuts
through the silence and decorates
old wisdom with ecstatic colour;
where the toll of the bell echoes through
the calm of cloister, innocent
of the sea’s wild rage and the wind’s roar.