Whithorn and Elrig

The monks liked cats for company, I hear.
I can believe it.
Felines of ink and gold
Arch the capitals,
Curve into the celibate white.
Scarlet badges if initiation
Wait at the head of the Word.
Felix was felis stroked
In the scriptorium
At Candida Casa.
A distance warmed.

The sculpture on the hill
Against an opening Atlantic sky –
This otter was a closer friend.
Lines had been passed into
Some understanding the man, at least, called love.
An arc of space there
was to be in.
Length and dive and leap
Until the end in the good stone world
And the quick sea.

In the village
A thin-faced church takes to itself
A bride, white ice and shimmer pale in flowers.
At the last moment, there is barely room
To turn towards the music.
Outside the stones tilt forward with their lines
And speak of earlier nights of loving, deep possession,
Brought again and again
To burial; children
Cradled, named and known,
Who never ran in the huge and gilded world
Or climbed in their letters
High and safe.