Set hard atop the tor, this holy place, for those
who worship Christ. Holy to my mind too,
my consecrated history. One of the constants I crave,
a toehold of the heart. A place in my being.

Do I Worship? After a fashion, yes. But silent,
disconnected, held rooted. For some it is a land lost.
I cling to these places, the mind’s hand grips the edge.
Not for reassurance, but for reflection,
connection, alive here in my past.

Here the wallstone, mottled with lichen,
holds an old tale. Oak door riveted with
ancient iron, bulwarks. Coloured glass,
yellow light on wooden pews, shiny with age.

Rest and comfort me. Recreate a memory,
in this place, of self, past moments.
Times of joy and youth.
Sanctuary if you like, shelter certainly.

I need this, I need to return. The weather outside
is cold, harsh, as it should be. To pray
would be facetious, mocking. Sit quiet, alone, absorb
and absorbed, the still air, resonates with meaning.

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