Visiting the ruins

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.Β You face the tea room.
Behind you in the abbey continuing prayers,
chanting, movements of medieval life.


Comments on: "Visiting the ruins" (8)

  1. Isn’t it astonishing how our memories can inject themselves into what we are actually seeing. As always powerful, moving and touching verse. You have a special gift πŸ™‚

  2. A masterful poem – I love this, Ina.

  3. Another fine one!

  4. entering your photo album is entering your heart, thank you Ina for your vulnerable sharing

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