At Buckfast Abbey
The monk, having seriously exercised his respect for Glasgow's wine, abstracted my queries regarding his life's order.
The ankle-low lamps coasted straight and narrow paths, giving the weak evening mist a siren's glamour.
A burglar alarm worried from chaotic directions; our movement let the monastery buildings dance the echoed panic.
In darkness brushed by nightfall's husk, the monks chanted like drill-men ritually thanking the Minister of Transport.
My fresh eyes were captivated by their Sunday chore, a ritual with incense, a sparkle in Latin.
This poem is retained for "possible" publication in a forthcoming edition of Orbis.
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