I have felt, I have felt a disturbance that

presences with the alleviation of joyed

things, almost fifty summers, fifty winters

and the sister in the earth, myself tucked

into the YHA near Windermere. I take a track

through ancestral country that stiles my steps

through wood, through thoughts infused with

sublimation, a motion that impels the object
of the spirit, the role of things. Was Einstein

rattling Mallarmé’s die? Imagine the abbey

tinted with the deeds of priests. There is nothing

here you say. And everything you loved. Your

setting words roll down the air, round and

round the smooth stone of your prayer.