The shadows of the crow soar overhead,
Above the roofless walls where monks have bled.
The immense abbey church in glory stood,
A temple hewn of stone and holy wood;
Named for the One, the Holy, and the True,
Before the raze of kings and thunder blew.
Now stripped of altars, bare and forbidden,
The sacred mysteries in dust are hidden.

Driven to scattered homesteads, poor and damp,
The religious fled the extinguishing of the lamp.
By wrathful rains and thunderous heavens fed,
They left the sanctuary to the dead.
But one remained, though people fled in fear:
The Weeping Angel, with her brow severe;
And wings bereft, she fell deeply inwards,
To wipe away the chains of tears and words;
She stood quite still, lost in the fearful time,
The only witness to the ancient crime.

The Tower stands, where remedies were brewed
In quiet vales, by nature now subdued.
Here Paradise stood tall in years gone past,
Where purified springs made water that would last.
Voices chanted up through the misty hills
Dispersing grace to cure the peoples’ ills.
In dreams one wonders: were the Spirits true?
Or just a mist that morning sunlight slew?

Now murky liquids swallow up God’s Word,
Down gutters where the innocent are heard.
The lame, the restless, minds in desperate state
Sit on the sandstone ledge to curse their fate.
Cross-legged, moss-infested, on death’s edge,
They call for Mercy from the ruin’s ledge;
Until the Angel, landing on the stone,
Prepares to make the final secret known.

A Note to the Reader

If these verses have resonated with you, please do get in touch. I maintain an extensive archive for readership. I would be delighted to share more with you.