Visiting Hilda

Whitby Abbey, July 2005

Will you stand here a moment with me,

high above the turmoil of the town,

the clatter, the chatter,

the rank consumption, the fetid waters?

Will you take a moment

in your home of carved honey stone,

buffeted by winds,

sucked dry by night flying things?

The audio guide tells me all I need to know,

of a saintly goodness

that's hard to comprehend.

So here I am bolstered by facts,

treading on splintered pearls

unwarmed by our garish sun

of fool's gold.

And yet, and yet, will you only

rest here a moment with me

and accept my gifts?

Those I myself cannot see?

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