At Buckfast Abbey

The monk, enjoying a respect for monastery wine, sleighted my query with discussing computer games, collecting and splattering.

A burglar alarm worried from a chaotic direction, each footstep dancing it like a fairground mirror reflection.

The Abbey, in darkness incompleted by nightfall's husk, protected monks who chanted, not as professionals, but as pneumatic workmen ritually thanking the Minister of Transport.

The narrow paths, each as sure as a pilot, were coasted by ankle lamps, which gave the weak evening mist a siren's glamour.

You may find observance a Sunday chore, but my fresh eyes were captivated by the ritual of Mass, an act.