The Sleepy Knight

Beneath these vaulted ruins,
Of moss softened stone,
You make your bed.
In dreams your brothers’
Blessed lullabies,
Hang still, in the stiff cold air.
Or drift like dust in sunlight
That floods through
The arched window bones.
So, you pass each season, till,
Your face, weathered to anonymity
Could be any man. Everyman.



Rain falls in the Abbey


Today is another season.
The cutters are silent at last.
Wet grass shocks and snarls
Their machines.
In procession, 
The new brothers and sisters ,
Hooded in rainbow coloured Macs. 
Take shelter within your ruin.
Rain falls in your cloisters. 
Rain falls in your nave
But your dry bones remain.
Bone dry.

First published on Poetry Scotland's Open Mouse Page