RUNNER UP: THE HERBALIST

Spirit fed by his early morning devotions, Brother John Strolled in the dew-fresh garden. Lavender for sweetening the air; sturdy foxglvoe heart-friend or fatal enemy; bright pot marigold to make into a soothing balm – he had planted them all, cherished and respected each one.

The sound of plundering bees drew him to Brother Anselm’s great circle, stone-edged half a century ago. A wheel within a wheel marked the centre, planted with a trinity of Rosemary the monks called Dew of the Sea. From it radiatedeight segements, each with its own healing herb.

Since early Spring Brother John had robbed them of their essence, pounded leaves, hung tied bunches to dry but now, in Autumn, he has let them flower into a riotous choir of colour with fragrant grace notes. Bees would make their best honey, dark and rich, liquid alchemy fermenting into finest mead.

Brother John circled the wheel brushing his hand lightly over the yellow flowers of Rue, herb of grace, the spidery umbels of Dill. He had made cordial in the Summer to aid digestion, will save the seeds with those of Cumin to flavour winter cakes. Calming Betony’s purple flowers were entwined

with the rare Oculus Christi. He passed gentle fingers over Comfrey, recalling Brother Jerome’s broken wrist, smiled down upon the day’s eye stars of Chamomile, blue lepers’ balm Hyssop, leaving only Sage to caress, the herb to heal both mind and body, bring wisdom. The returned robin sang from the willow by the pond

and all was well in the peaceful garden. Brother John gave thanks unaware of the billowing, dark clouds of dissolution hovering over the distant horizon.