The bell tolled for Terce.
Some monk stood
by the bell rope
in the cloister
eyes downcast,
hands wrapped
in the wide sleeves
of his black gown.
The monks walked
through the cloister
in dribs and drabs
from various parts
of the abbey,
I walked past
the flower beds,
flowers upright,
bright and colourful.
I put two fingers
into the stoup
and water touched my skin,
made the sign of the cross,
walked to the choir stalls.
She wrapped her legs
about me, held me
in place, my lips
against her face,
my fingers traced
along her thigh.
I opened up the breviary,
page turning, finding
the hour, the date,
white page, black writing,
red page endings,
eye scanned.
Other monks settled
into places, like pieces
into narrow slots.
I kissed each breast in turn,
her hand on my back,
flat palm, warm, soft.
Deus, in adiutórium
meum inténde,
Dómine, ad adiuvándum
me festína, we began,
voices in unison,
baritones with tenors,
an alto there some place.
Light from high windows,
sunlight spreading against
the flagstones like
spilt liquid gold.
See, she said, see this
and this and I saw
and was glad.
A solo monk chants his line,
I follow along with others,
voice with voice,
tone on tone,
I stand with them,
but feel so alone.