The Austrian monk,
stopped by the church doors,
made the fingered sign
of the cross,
sunlight on my head
as I walked the cloister,
bell chimed the one hour,
the office of Sext to begin,
blessed are they
who go by the pure path,
Dom Henry had said,
that time in the gardens
as I mowed the lawn,
she kissed me
so tenderly,
so softly,
I entered the church,
fingered the stoup,
watered I crossed myself,
Brother John,
sour faced,
eyed me as I stood
in the choir stall,
who walks in the Lord's path
are blessed,
Dom Henry said,
I mowed by the monk's cemetery,
molehills by the graves,
her neck smelt of flowers,
taste here, she said,
taste and see,
the abbot tapped on wood,
the chant began,
the sunlight flowed
through the high windows,
ora pro nobis,
the monk opposite,
eyed his book,
turned the page
with thin fingers,
I tasted her, salt and fish,
a splendid dish.