Abbey
Written by Janet Fisher
A dead crow on the grass, the inner gates
locked. It’s not since we were last here,
tracing the monks’ forgotten path: vigils
in scratchy robes through the long nights,
a blaze of clarity at dawn, lentils and acorn bread,
escape to a hum of beehives and compost.
Cherry blossom brushes the fallen stones.
Children leap of the steps, barred by sunlight.
Behind the chapter house’s vaulted cage
lie stone coffins with head rests, drainage holes,
a sprig of cherry where the breast might be;
and it’s a sort of resurrection knowing at last
what I think of you, outlined against a broken
arch curved like a gravestone, a sunrise.