CAUGHT MY EYE 1971

young man on the brink of monkhood in 1971

I prepared the soup
in the abbey kitchen,
Dom Patrick diced meat

on a table nearby,
head lowered,
thoughts on God

no doubt,
one of the French
peasant monks,  

Brother Blaise,
came into the kitchen
carrying a box of vegetables,

his sad dark eyes,
focused on me,
then away,

at Dom Patrick,
head lowered,
hands gnarled,

held in front of him,
she lay there
on the sofa undressed,

her pubic dark
like a forest to get lost in,
you can go now, Blaise,

Patrick said, find apples,
need apples,
Blaise walked off,

his booted feet slumbering
out the door
like a heavy-loaded mule,

I stirred the soup,
thinking of the refectory floor
still to sweep and wash

before lunch,
place a kiss here,
she said,

pointing to her navel,
her thin finger,
indicating sexually,

the soup will be fine now,
Patrick said,
begin sweeping the floor

of the refectory,
so I went with broom
and dustpan,

into the large refectory,
sunlight coming
through the coloured glass windows

onto the wood patterned floor,
birds sang from outside,
a bell rang from the clock tower,

chimed the quarter,
my lips on her navel,
soft on soft,

smell of perfume,
soaked in it
no doubt,

I swept with broom,
gathering into piles,
swept up into the dustpan,

the sunlight patterned the floor,
reds and yellows,
oranges and blues,

my stomach rumbled for food,
my head trying to focus
on work and prayer,

touch me, touch me,
here and here and there,
she said,

I washed the floor
to a damp shine,
waited in the cloister

until dry,
a monk moving by
the cloister,

dark robed,
tonsured,
caught my eye.