Garden Hermit
In a stone-carved cell where shadows creep,
A Beadsman wakes while the world is deep.
No common Hermit in a lonely cave,
He prays for the soul of the fallen and brave.
His heavy cogitation drifts like smoke
Beneath the weight of a tattered cloak.
Within his walls, the space is cold and spare,
A narrow squint his only window’s glare.
A rough-hewn table and a pallet bed,
With a shallow pit where he will lay his head.
Through the alms-hatch, simple bread is passed,
In this stone-locked tomb where his lot is cast.
He feels the grey acedia of the soul,
A stagnant tide he cannot control.
Each prayer he whispers seems a hollow ambsace,
A luckless hand in a silent place.
Yet as the morning starts to broach the night,
The gargoyle grins in the creeping light.
To feign a hope is a weary task,
When truth is hidden behind a mask.
But dreams of Avalon, that emerald shore,
Whisper of peace and the end of war.
It would beseem a spirit such as his
To find the enchantment in a world like this.
He calls to his compeer, the rising sun,
The long night’s labor finally done.
For though the stone is cold and the air is thin,
The light of the spirit is where the days begin.
The candle flickers, a dying spark,
As he prepares to leave the dark.
No more the nullity of a life in debt,
No more the shadows where the sun has set.
His reflection ends, the beads grow still,
He yields his spirit to a higher will.
Above his head, the Eye of Providence keeps its watch,
While fingers fumble at the final notch.
It would befit a soul so worn and grey
To find at last the breaking of the day.
No longer bound by church or heavy stone,
He claims a peace he’s never truly known.
His consort calls from far across the mist,
A land of gold the setting sun has kissed.
Enchantment wakes, the old myths call his name,
And Avalon begins to fan the flame.
The Beadsman leaves his cell and shallow pit,
To find the light the heavens have unlit.
Note: A touch of the 13th century.
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