Isle of Skye / New at Priory

Once on a wet day

My foot, unshod, into 

A blanket of moss sunk.

Long ago and overhead 

Leaves had netted

to complicate the light.

Deep, damp, undappled-

Into tree-cradled coolness

I sunk and felt

The dear, depth fresh

Of time’s accumulation there-

On the Island of Skye-

Blocked wheres.

To be at Priory is like this.

Names of spaces, centers, and monks

(Anselm, Alwan, and Aidan to start)

Tangle overhead and underfoot 

To form the cradle of a tradition

Begun long before they did.

Into which, if one has heart to hear

and will to rest, one may surely sink.