Saint Catherine's, Abbotsbury

for Aaron Hales

I made a covert pilgrimage
up the worn path
through the strip lynchets
and indifferent sheep
until the eyrie of Saint Catherine's
small buttressed magnitude
was gained;
a place that was, you said much later,
held together by bits of paper,
feathers, shells, and prayers.
Perfect acoustics, you marvelled,
while I searched for something silent
I could hear.
The thin note
I posted into a crevice
months ago,
had been posted back again
in another's voice.
Anchored beneath candle butts , sea-worn stones,
and here, it was the same plaint,
the same, I've been away, not myself,
unwell, or my child, my love or
I must bear it all.
How could I tell you
in this space, so full of hope,
of resignation,
what it felt like to be back, and well.
The midden crunched beneath our feet.
We left the chapel's hush
for those great outer walls
and found a sheltered corner
where mustard-coloured lichen clung.
You said that this was perhaps one of my colours
and I took the whole place in,
pocketed a chalky stone,
sucked calm into my lungs again.