Stern, ancient yew trees stand as cynical observers;
Enclosed within ancient walls of learning; secret desires:
Booming organ peals buried in mazes of silent subways,
Echoes of knights battling; clamouring broadswords:
Deep wells of mysteries; overflow spent murderous intent.
Incense and antiquity pervade this monastery garden,
Scattered with scarlet poppies, innocently attentive:
Coffee robed monks glide through on stealthy, scuffed feet;
Absorbed in mute obeyance; knee deep in obscure prayers: Leaning bell tower reaches skywards; aspiring immortality
Yearning for freedom from yoke of cloistered strife:
Unpardonable sins cloak the brass bell with loathing;
Unclean, it rings: unclean, untrue.
The scarlet poppy heads sway in unspoken agreement.
Stained glass windows cast biblical warnings; shading chapel floors:
Trails and snails of red choirboys; voices raised in jubilation,
Snake through shaded cloisters; trammelled by pilgrims heavy tred;
Often never to leave, enjoy life’s simple pleasures: here for eternity;
Marked by Latin inscriptions chiselled deep on crumbling tablets,
As tombstones slide sideways in abject, weeping, despair.
If only scarlet poppies could talk………