Buckfast Tonic

Today, this place is re-
woven on a loom with
a hundred thousand,
silent, spoken threads.

The Rule is read.

The river waves and
sings to passing rocks,
while patient, well-trod
paths, groan underfoot.

The Mass is said.

Ancient trees whisper
antiphons, that drizzle
the unfurling ferns with
charms and Glory Bees.

The monk is dead.

This is where the Ever
Ancient Ever New will
come to live, wrapped in
old habits that die hard.

The robes are shed.

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