Riders Are Coming

I was reading over Fran's welcome to new residents of the Abbey

I have been thinking about the newcomers to the Abbey
who are finding places, in the kitchen
in the quiet halls
the secret gardens
or standing at ancient lecterns reading scrolls
or dancing with the golden sprites in the morning sun
and wondered where I would be found

You will have to look upward, for I am she
who sits in a childhood cubby house
in a wicker rocking chair
an old old woman in an old old tree
watching from the garden

and thought to myself that I would join this old old woman, who sat rocking, in a wicker chair in a cubby, in the towering old old oak tree. She said that there were two chairs so I decided to pack up a small picnic and climb up and perch there with her so that I too could see what she saw.

We sat together, in silence, the old old woman and I. We sat in the cubby in the old old tree and savoured our coffee, warmed our hands on our cups and just watched, like the elderly Greek villagers sitting on stone pavements, watching the passing parade. I was reminded of a very special view from a tower window at Sissinghurst but, when all is said and done, I do prefer this cubby.

I too saw the kitchens, the gardens, the halls, the people moving around this once deserted Abbey. I observed green in areas that had once lay parched, an exquisite glass garden bowl that sparkled in the morning sunlight. I spied shoots, that thought no one was lookings, bursting from rich earth, saw the woods where the caravan had parked, leaving tracks in the muddied ground.



I caught a glimpse of the cemetery, spied where the well must be and thought, or perhaps imagined that I glimpsed riders coming down the road towards the Abbey. But when I looked again they were gone.

After an hour of sitting with the old old woman in her cubby in that old old tree I carefully climbed down the ladder, stopped to talk to the ravens in the rookery and learned that yes, there are riders coming towards the Abbey.