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.




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