Sanctuary # 2

A dry echo. Footsteps ring back from
the cloister's walls; a brittle sound falls down
hard on the worn, red tiles. A host

of shuffling footsteps has removed the shine
that once was on them. Matted, they have grown
more beautiful, more homely - but the feet

that took the glaze off left; the walkers have
been long forgotten. Silence reigns. My feet
seem strange intruders in the stilted peace

this medieval structure still retains
without its household. Looking down on those
perambulating its four stretches, there's

the lonely stillness born of loss, and time
that's gone awry in faith unheard, untold -
and all this breathless beauty's just grown old.