William Wilson
The Retreat
Two steep tracks
reach the drystone dyke
above the abbey.
I like the longer one
across the hill and through the wood.
Perhaps the exertion
Of climbing among pines,
brings warmth and peace
as I rest by the wall
listening to the angelus.
Leaves drift;
a robin warns of winter.
In the abbey garden
a girl watches
someone gather fruit.
Clouds on eau-de-nil;
walls warmed by sunset.
I drink tea, pondering
life enclosed by ritual...
Following the ancient path,
I enter by the pilgrims’ gate
but find only quiet and
gentle toleration of years.
Page(s) 27
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