The orange bricks
in the cloister wall
seemed less orange
in the late afternoon sun,
without us God will not
Augustine said,
I walked from my cell
along the passage way,
the frail French monk
in the infirmary needed
washing and preparing for bed,
quiet and with dignity
I washed him
and prepared him,
without God we cannot
said Augustine
so Dom Henry said,
the clock tower
chimed a quarter,
kiss me here and here
she said, lips on flesh,
warm and tasting of sea salt,
the French peasant monk
carried manure across
from the farm
to the cloister beds
in a wooden wheelbarrow,
bent low, balding head,
wet soaped flannel
I washed the frail monk down
thin arms and arthritic hands,
this is our foreplay
she said, let games begin,
I washed his frail head
washed off the soap
with another flannel,
warm clean water,
Hugh walked to the latrines
carrying a bucket,
face unsmiling,
sacraments are an outward sign
of inward grace Dom Bruno said,
I dried the old monk
and dressed him in pyjamas,
weak sun in afternoon cloister,
bricks more orange,
take me here she said,
I kissed her thighs,
staring fires,
from whence shall come my help?
the frail monk lay in bed,
clean and refreshed,
I gazed at the bell tower
as I walked the cloisters,
brick on a brick
in the late afternoon,
in the sky
a fading sun
and the start
of a pale moon.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 2:41 AM UTC
The orange bricks
in the cloister wall
seemed less orange
in the late afternoon sun,
without us God will not
Augustine said,
I walked from my cell
along the passage way,
the frail French monk
in the infirmary needed
washing and preparing for bed,
quiet and with dignity
I washed him
and prepared him,
without God we cannot
said Augustine
so Dom Henry said,
the clock tower
chimed a quarter,
kiss me here and here
she said, lips on flesh,
warm and tasting of sea salt,
the French peasant monk
carried manure across
from the farm
to the cloister beds
in a wooden wheelbarrow,
bent low, balding head,
wet soaped flannel
I washed the frail monk down
thin arms and arthritic hands,
this is our foreplay
she said, let games begin,
I washed his frail head
washed off the soap
with another flannel,
warm clean water,
Hugh walked to the latrines
carrying a bucket,
face unsmiling,
sacraments are an outward sign
of inward grace Dom Bruno said,
I dried the old monk
and dressed him in pyjamas,
weak sun in afternoon cloister,
bricks more orange,
take me here she said,
I kissed her thighs,
staring fires,
from whence shall come my help?
the frail monk lay in bed,
clean and refreshed,
I gazed at the bell tower
as I walked the cloisters,
brick on a brick
in the late afternoon,
in the sky
a fading sun
and the start
of a pale moon.
A YOUNG MAN IN AN ABBEY IN 1971 HAUNTED BY A WOMAN
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