Storm Malik

Sitting on a stone bench, the Abbey’s weight of history heavy, 

A pervading presence, dominating all that it surveys. 

Cold bright day with waning weak winter sun, 

wind whips up the detritus into a frenzy, and the ceilidh begins. 

First up to the stage a staccato dance of leaves upon harsh stone flags.

In the corner they tumble, reel upon reel, performing for a capricious master today. 

Next up a banshee's howl through stalwart pillars cast in a regimental stand. 

Conifers like stallions fight amongst themselves, hooves raised high above their bowing heads 

Whilst the lines of leafless trees, drug induced ancient priestess's, arms raised high, dance their dance of wild abandonment. 

The wind masters all today, for it is his piper who calls the tune. 

And the tune it howls is the Vikings have returned and Malik be his name