In through the stained glass windows, the days pass silent,
the order’s obeyed as laid down in the law.

Behind these stone walls, I see kingdoms rise and together they fall,
I watch and it becomes all.

There’s a difference,
this monastery,
full I’d say of not so merry men,
a thieves den of ineffability fools me.

I look again through the codpiece of Christopher Wren etched in the stain glass,
I pass on looking more maybe the monks who drier than sin would welcome me in,
but the order is sealed,
a healing may be for some, not for me,
the order is clear,
all are welcomed but not in here.

The bells ring
the monks sing
The day brings
no new

© 2015, John Smallshaw.