I mark the wind at midnight sweep
Across the winter fell and burn,
I watch it spool and gust and turn
To drive pale sleet where spirits sleep.
Then up the bald tor, high and steep,
It drives the snow, the world to thrall,
I watch dead aspens crack and fall
While from its branches goblins leap.
Above the lake the abbey stands,
Its gray walls seeming old as Time
Its battlements now caked with rime,
While near oak branches scrape like hands.
The monks sequestered in their cells
Pray at this appointed hour,
Chimes from out the steeple tower
Are rung from ancient bronze cast bells.
The wind enlivens, leads those prayers
Back across the fell and burn
Then up the tor I watch it turn
Rise heavenward on starry stairs.
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Submission Name: Winter Abbey
