I walk toward the loggia tall,
Grass banking at my sides.
It’s awful scale pulls into view
Delicate; warm, with details few.
I stop before the copper doors
Patinered, worn and stained.
With handles wrought inviting grip,
I reach to grasp and turn it’s tip.
The door is sealed; locked fast shut
Yet compelled I am to stay.
Something special has been built here
In this garden, a world away.
The Seven Wells Path, 09/2015
I muse a while in heathered grove
With woodland all around.
The hills: they rise and sink and fall,
Held tight between two granite walls.
The smell of pine—so rich and fresh—
Encloses nested space.
I turn a corner, marked by graves, and
Tread a path that was once paved.
A chapel sits, so old, yet poised
Slate black with timber arms.
It binds this nook – a trait so rare:
Positioned with such solemn care.
I step beneath its gabled roof
The rain is softly thick.
My footsteps bleed into the stone;
I lean a while, stood all alone.
An aircraft breaks my silent stare through
Woodland breaks and gates.
I see an endless passage there
to walk therein. The rain I’ll bear.
The Woodland Chapel, 09/2015