Trees Four

One winter day I was photographing on the grounds of a deserted monastery
      not far from where I live.
The buildings were only thirty years old.
But the order’s numbers were declining; they could not afford the upkeep.
So their home was put up for sale.
It sat vacant for several years, unwanted.
I went there often, even though signs stood guard
      and announced “No trespassing!”.
Now I believe that walking meditatively with camera in hand
      across sacred, neglected landscape can hardly be labeled trespassing,
            so I patted the signs as I walked past,
                  knowing they were only doing their duty.
That day I came upon where these brothers stood: one, two, three, four.
They reminded me of the brotherhood who had lived there before,
      men I knew.
Season after season they kept their vigil, these four.
One of the heartbreaks of being a photographer over time
      is the remembering.
Eventually the property sold.
The buildings were not redeemed but torn down.
Concrete streets were carved into the earth.
These brothers stood where they were not wanted,
      so down they came: one, two, three, four.
But I still remember.
And as long as this picture remains, the brotherhood will not be forgotten.