Your message takes me
in late of night
to your sacred place
resting at Pistyll on Llŷn
chapel of St Beuno the healer
here to find
the silence that you seek

Sheltered in Celtic oval
tucked below cliff height
ternsweep of Atlantic wave
sanctity still preserved
in a layered blessing
of rushes and mending herbs
freshly strewn
on hardpacked floor
pressed by centuries
of foot and knee

Your treasure
(your secret)
where my prayer
if I have voice enough
is no brazen declaration
of tower-tied bell
but whisper of wind
stirring churchyard clover
featherheads nodding red
in concordance
with your murmured