An abbey
You would think a peaceful place
Given to prayer and work
A silent space
Alas a crowd arrived
A pilgrimage of grace
From that encounter
Lending them a horse
The abbey fell
And what befell the abbot
Far far worse
I went to Whalley
One fine Monday morn
With the parish priest of Padiham
Close by
The Monday morning ritual
In full swing
Day off clergy gathered there
Holy Golf their thing
The ruins of the abbey
Still survive
A fine retreat house now
A catholic hall
Foundations of the church
Lie open to the sky
The everlasting question
Why Oh why
Recently some bother
Came again
Drinking underage
A gang of boys
And bothering the parson
Shouting loud obscene
More Henrys and more Cromwells
Joy of joys
Magnificent ruins
Stand across the land
We stare at them
And dream of them when grand
The days of their destruction
We easily forget
And the abbot who died in Lancaster
His name…I’ll remember yet
Brian Fahy
24 October 2021
+ Prompted by an article in today’s Observer, by Julian Coman, entitled Hilary Mantel tells a great tale but ruined abbeys tell a different one.
+ The last abbot of Whalley was John Paslew.
Erris Poetry 