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.
Copyright ©
Dr. Padmashree R P
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