Stand silent, and you’ll sense the ghosts <br />Of Fountains Abbey <br />White Monks in raw wool habits <br />Wafting through your soul <br />Formed-up, Benedictine and Cistercian <br />Heads low in solemn procession <br />One-by-one and breeze-by-breeze <br />Hushed forever now <br />But loud as children running free <br />Through grassy fields <br />Where the entrance used to be <br /> <br />You can feel them still, within <br />Her hallowed walls <br />In chaffinch nests that mark <br />Majestic sandstone halls <br />Guides informs us these are ruins, <br />But they can’t describe <br />The abundant life that’s found inside <br />The broken mortar and crumbled <br />Abutments that fused the <br />Banquet hall and cells <br />In every fracture, every crack <br />A plant or insect dwells <br /> <br />Stroll with them, <br />The ghostly monks of Fountains Abbey <br />Through the frigid corridors, <br />They still perform their daily chores <br />Baking bread and weaving wool <br />Tending sheep across the meadow <br />To the altar where they pray <br />For their brothers who lie <br />Today, below the stony, ancient paths <br />Open to the Yorkshire sky <br /> <br />*From the book: Vapours of Promise, ©2004 - ISBN 1-59526-352-7<br /><br />Kelly Vinal<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ghosts-of-fountains-abbey/
