Drybrugh Abbey, Scotland

A little poem about a walk i did on St.Cuthbert’s Way besides the banks of the River Tweed in the Scottish Borders…

This sacred path, a pilgrim’s way,
cross Border country to the Holy Isle,
picks its sunken steps under oak and pine.
The trail grows dark under leadening skies;
rain is soon-away and the air thickens to its impending tune.
Across the tumbling of a Tweed cauld
lie the red ruins of the Abbey’s remains.
This is a holy place, where holy men have worked and toiled,
now abandoned and forgot. 
And in the mid-distance, unseen passed the trees,
thuds the relentless din of lorrytraffic.

Crossing the iron-wraught bridge 
over fishermen gazing into fly-boxes, all-geared-up,
unawake to a shady idyll just behind them,
sits a stately cupola, lifted upon Ionic stilts.
Apollo’s statue stands stridently aloft, his finger cocked to the sky,
proudly pointing to the wonders of the firmament
whilst beckoning travellers haven.
Inside, four half-humans in bronze intertwine,
dancing to Edward Thomson’s Seasons. For this place is meant for him,
ancient celebrant of Nature’s graces.
Yet still the relentless din of lorrytraffic.