MeurigText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedA twelfth-century monk - decides to resthis eyes shut to the valley's watered rushbeneath the mill’s lank shadows, he is blessedits turn of wheel flowing through his blood.On rising, the abbey’s ruin takes his breath,a melt of dead stones churning up his guts,a stench from coppered stilts makes him retchas raw-boned faces call him to their husks.So, dumbstruck by the valley’s new languageit’s in the church w...