NOT A CLOWN.

A YOUNG MAN ON THE BRINK OF MONKHOOD IN 1971

Open my lips,
book open,
dawn light dim,

the monks enter,
the church,
the choir stalls,

smell of incense.
I am aware of
the Crucified,

hung high,
nailed there,
plaster,

coloured flesh,
wood.
The eyes see

what is seen,
held in mind,
captured image on image, 

come my Christ,
utter to me,
for I am as one low.

Light from light, 
light of the light,
out of the depths,

and she touched me,
the bell
of the church tower

sounding, 
the bell rings,
rings into my heart and head.

I stand in the choir stall,
the abbot taps the wood,
the chant begins,

the chant rises,
voices in union,
her lips on mine,

pressed,
soft fruit.
Come my Lord,

enter the soul,
awaken me, 
my fingers,

her fingers,
finger me.
Matins sung,

light on light,
windows bring
dawn’s light,

light upon light
light on light,
come my Christ,

light bringer,
soul saver.
I see her as she was,

naked, 
flesh to flesh,
flesh on flesh.

come my Lord,
I am as one down,
a lost soul,

not a fool,
not a clown.