The Abbey

 The thurible swung rhythmic,
incense smoke columns to the roof
gossamer, silver, white and sweet,
the Host raised high
above the cassocked priest,
monks silent all in black
bowed before their abbot.
All silent where we watched
beneath the tranquil sky,
blue with morning light.
Pillars rising with the smoke
contradicting all we heard,
pillars, solid as the Benedictines
long since gone,
but the incense smoke was not,
the magic of a thousand years
held all  inthrall.
The children stood, impatient
the foot-ball at their feet
"Daddy can we play now?"
rang round the austere nave
. . . . . . .and they were gone.
incense smoke gone with them,
blown with the morning mist,
a pigeon flapped across the nave
a rabbit scurried home,
so the game was started,
daddy keeping, jackets for a goal
church bells calling matins.