Saint Drostan's


Spinning sphere, silent, equal,
balanced - I feel it, it fits
my stomach, it fills
my soul - in harmony and
peace revolving yet still.

Red stained glass and a golden
halo: a lamb cradled on one
shoulder, a staff leant on -
and the quiet white altar
standing ready.

Twin room, silent beds, no-one
knocks although I hear footsteps
and doors squeaking, opening,
shutting: privacy of thought
and body: rest.


The roaring of the wind in the
trees, tossing giant heads,
sounds like a huge waterfall:
warm wind welcoming as we
face it: benign September.

Small circle small flame,
words and silence, we sit, we
come, we go, the red carpet
rolled out for us, covering the
floor, bearing our soles

and the bird hovers, gifts
in its beak, frozen, moving, 
forever gathering in this fourth
version of ancient stone
laid in pain.

There is a cross carved near
here, in stone, on a hill,
sought by modern eyes,
the fashioning of ancient hands.
It stands as mark

of time, of consistency, but
most of all presence - lives
lived in the elements of this
original glen, like Eden,
decked in Scottish bracken and pine.

There is silence around me now,
out there the water rushes
as if it were air: the wind
of the spirit visits us
like a prayer.
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