The Abbey's Whisper

Stone, kissed by salt, sighs on the isle, A Gothic spine, against the tide's guile — eight centuries, etched in weathered stone, A whispered prayer, a lonely throne. Granite fingers, reaching for the sky, Embrace the sun, as shadows fly. As a timeless grace, the abbey stands as A sanctuary in this watery space. The sea, a restless, murmuring friend, Whispers tales, to the tide's relentless end. Each ebb and flow, a rhythmic beat, A soul's lament, on an island's feet. Columns rise, like ancient trees, Reaching heaven in the salt-laced breeze. Tranquil silence fills the air, Faith's fragile bloom is beyond compare. Granite heart, a watchful eye, On shifting sand and moonlit sky. Time, a tide, relentlessly sweeps, The abbey stands; its purpose remains. A whispered hymn, on wind-blown waves, Hope, a beacon, on these lonely caves. The abbey's soul, a steadfast light, A testament, to human might.