Hers was a life of compliance.
Fulfilment of another’s wishes,
observance of another’s needs,
conformity to the rules set down
in stone. She was the rubber of
beads through fingers, touched
by thumbs; the beads of the rosary
would be sealed by prayers.

She was the self denier, who put
herself last, one who sacrificed
pleasures for a promised salvation,
whose menstruations were reminders
of babies that would never be,
children which would never be hers,
dugs that would never be ******.  

She carried the cross through cloisters,
sandaled feet trod the paved paths,
heard birdsong, saw butterflies in flight,
moths at night in the candle’s flame,
she hidden away, unknown, no fame
with a saint’s name. And each morning
rising with the bell, kissed by the early
dawn, touched by the chill of early frost,
she lived and moved, all for love of Christ.