What makes you sacred,

Surely not the walls or their shape soaring upwards,

Or the craft in the seamless joins,

Made lovingly by stonemasons from the novel Sarum.

Is it the cold stone, or your warm face,

Which makes you look soft when you are hard,

Or the afterglow of incense, illuminated by the morning sun,

Streaming through the broken window.

No, these are memories, not inner peace.

But they do prompt the imagination,

Which is the door of my soul.

So there is my answer. The monastery Within.