The Abbey (First Draft)

The soaring arches lead eyes heavenward,
The cloisters recall days of old where
nuns in their habits may have roamed and
monks might have studied and learned and sung.

Numerous chapels fill the space,
each holding special meaning to
the one who may stop to pray.
Monuments to the long dead,
and the not-so-long dead
are scattered throughout.

In this most sacred of halls
is a quiet corner.

The graves underfoot,
the memorials to the roof
each name known to all,
a veritable who’s-who of
Poetry.

Those who brought joy to many,
separated in life by time and distance,
brought together in death
in this Abbey.

Death is no respecter of
class or wealth or any other human definition.
Death unites those,
and here lie the ones
whose lives, and work,
are admired through the ages.

To touch the graves
is to touch their genius,
to feel their presence,
to know their spirits.

In this most sacred of halls
is a quiet corner
where the authors of
the words that will live on forever
are laid to rest, in this final place,
in the Abbey known simply as
Westminster.