The other night, as I lay sleeping,
I dreamt that we had walked all day
in fields and woods and holy spaces,
stopping on crumbled bridges
to watch the flows,
feeling the weight of the past
in small, old churches,
and listening for the forest spirits
whispering out from under last year’s leaves.
In quiet and laughter,
apart and alone
We had walked the full day
at a pace that we could own,
carving out time from a hasty present
and filling our souls with less
in a world that always pushes more.
And at day’s end
We came upon a ruined abbey,
ancient and open to the sky.
Weathered columns held up a vanished roof
and half-cracked flagstones lay beneath
the dirt and turf of years.
Worshiping nature grew up
around the altar of the Lord,
a living carpet stretching out,
green and waving,
over memories of Latin hours
Standing still,
We held our breath and asked the space to speak.
And in the falling twilight of that ruined hall
We lived a moment at the stalled heart of the time,
listening to the stones
while the purpled sky gave way above
to black and stars.
