by W.McM. Cunningham
The caretaker had cleared the snow
A path was there for winter tourists
Few in number; only we two.
Disdaining his aid you left your imprint
In fresh snow, white as innocence.
Fresh fall or thaw; time wiped away
All evidence of our having been.
Not so the monks of old
Whose presence hung upon us that day;
The remnant of ‘bare ruined choirs’
Called aloud to us that they
And once mayhap their God had walked
In a green and pleasant vale.
A leaden ingot with Caesar’s seal
Told of a rapacious king long dead.
Cold and silent when we walked then,
Surely some warmth yet remains
In these gaunt walls.