Balmerino Abbey Day

Around the river,

walking the water lanes

from where the car was left

(better to tread lightly

down to the remains

of the monastery).

All that concerns you are ruins,

she says when we reach them.

When I told her of this place

she went to turn away,

but still came today.

More watchful dead at rest

beneath the turf than any

visitors above.

We carefully tread through

a forenoon of haar

that brings out the stark best

from what’s hidden in the walls

and atmosphere.

Here a thoughtful hand had left

flowers, now fading,

in an alcove for the brothers.

Smell of the crest of the

incoming tide, like incense,

awakening reflective senses.

You should have been a monk,

she says wryly.

I spy around the precinct

for the vanished tree

that Ermentrude the queen

might have planted.

Wish I was, I say back to her

before going.