The start of a life is a brick to a building, many more to follow
though the house is never complete. It needs a balcony for better views,
an attic to forget, a cellar for hiding, an extension or two after each surgery,
a garden to bury in.
And then the whole thing collapses, the ruins taken over
by oblivious weeds. Such are the streets our minds wander off to
in deep of nights, awaiting anaesthesia.
Some shadows give a preview of the dark,
Tree leaves dancing on a kitchen floor,
An omen for the day the tree is dead.
We need no more proof that all is our imagination,
We are here; the tree is not, yet do we see it move.
I’m here for now. My shadow has its own life to continue.
We are in the abbey with no roof, yet
seconds before they disappear behind limestone pillars,
monks can be seen, disguised as seagulls,
chanting words can be heard, a murmur of Latin prayers,
mistaken for the roar of the North Sea.
When I make a photo of you looking over the harbour,
standing next to you is an astonished man
with a tonsure of a Benedict
who opens his mouth in the way of Munch’s Scream
but I only hear Kittiwakes yell and his wife calling him Pete.
I capture your smile outside the abbey. You face the tea room.
Behind you in the abbey continuing prayers,
chanting, movements of medieval life.