Grey stone buildings jumble on the promontory.
White cliffs fall to the sea like a bridal veil,
merge with the blue waters of the summer season.
The land lies still, wanting, waiting.
Change of season late in coming.

Cisterns are dry, roses wilting.
A black clad woman walks the garden.
Dry leaves dance suddenly along the paves.
Her tongue licks the faint movement of air,
storm clouds gathers in the East.

After Vespers and Compline
the young nun enters her chamber,
opens the window, pushes back the heavy panes.
Sea fuses into obsidian sky.
Starlight dims behind racing clouds.

She sheds her habit for a white muslin sheath,
beds down on the narrow cot.
A slight breeze rolls over the window sill,
continues though the room, playfully
caresses the woman’s feet, licks her cheek.

A stronger gust follows,
pushes under her sheath,
waves up her inner thighs, caresses her belly,
rustles the stubby hair of her shorn head.
Her toes curl, knuckles turn white.

The storm comes suddenly and strong,
carries dried leaves of roses,
the scent of salty seas, fecund fields.
Her sheath pushed up around her waist,
an offer to a pagan God.

Window panes clank in protest,
waves crash against the rocky shore.
Clouds shed a load of steady rain.
The ****** sleeps, limbs askew,
until the hour of Aurora and Lauds.