Abbot

The Abbot’s Quiet Vigil

In the mist‑kissed cloister of the old abbey,
the abbot quiets the world with a gnarled staff,
his cloak, a woolen sweep of autumn’s warm hue,
every thread a story of prayers, of service, of faith.

He opens the stone‑laden doors each dawn,
to hear the echo of monks chanting the canonical hours,
to feel the breath of the earth under the weight
of the ironled rib‑arch; it hums, a living choir.

The abbot, a steward of stone and of word,
binds the chapel’s scrolls with his own hand,
writes with slow ink a humble liturgy,
a silver‑spooled vow to the Order’s promise.

Through the windows tinted with St. John’s stained glass,
he watches the neighbour’s eaves, the sheep that mend the fields,
his eyes reading more than the light: the community, the seasons, the turning of the world.

In council and in candle, he gives counsel,
his voice a calm river over granite,
sparing the youth a gentle scold, a knowing smile—
his patience as deep as the well at the abbey’s west end.

The abbot’s tongue, though seasoned by years, still sings,
of charity, of humility, of cause and consequence,
his life a palimpsest of quiet deeds, the whispering prayers,
the echo of footsteps on stone, the mountain of faith.

When twilight falls, he walks the gardens, a robed pilgrim,
harvesting herbs for the night’s humble abacus,
knowing that every clumsy cross he fixes, every story he tells,
is a tincture for future days.

So in that cloistered hush, the abbot remains,
a lighthouse standing firm amid the storm,
his dignity an unbroken chain, his heart an open book—
the humble heart that lets the world find its own colour again.