Keeper of abbeys,
his name was carved in the grey stone,
it was the angel of the north.
Reaching for a last
remnant of the light;
it catches the high stones.
He came down from the moors,
he’d seen much better days,
he set himself to the rain.
Keeper of abbeys,
his name was carved in the grey stone,
it was the angel of the north.
Reaching for the light
rising like the cooling towers
of the edgelands.
Weathered like the stone,
long ago he set himself to the rain.
Keeper of abbeys,
his name was carved in the grey stone,
it was the angel of the north.
In his eyes,
the embers of love,
fading and failing,
if you look close
if you look hard,
you can see the traces.
He has become the stones;
weathered to fall
reaching for the last
dying ray of light
in a valley in the north
where a river runs its course.
(he had wanted to travel...)
