In my sheltered rear garden
a sundial attempts to mark
the passages of day and night,
in spite of sullying features of
the bird lime on it’s brassy face.
Of course the sundial has no
inner sight as human kind may
wish to claim – instead it stands
there marking time to benefit the
wider world of homo sapiens et al.
And yet in abbey gardens where
the monks would gather honey to
the serenade of hums – a certain
holiness prevails, that far out weighs
our understanding of it’s sanctity.
Sometimes I listen to their tones
when I meditate at home, and I try
to think of them on bended knees,
within the earshot of my prized CD.
Often, I even manage to transcend.