APPLE PICKING 1971

A YOUNG MAN IN AN ABBEY IN 1971 AND HAUNTED BY A WOMAN

Some monk with a cissy girl's haircut
showed me how to pick apples
in the orchard of the abbey,
fingers held so, he said,
gazing at me through
thick lens spectacles,

the clock tower
chimed a quarter,

the sun was warm,
cloudless blue sky,

take me from the rear,
she said, be a dear and I did,

place the apples gently
in the basket, the monk said,
do not drop them in
that will bruise them, he added,

the French peasant monk
wheeled dung in a huge
wheelbarrow, head down,
eyes on the path,
God blessed no doubt,

turneth mine eyes
from frivolous things,
Dom Henry said, that day
I mowed the lawn by the church,
away from following
the path to wealth,
he added, eyeing me,  

she sighed deeply
her arms about me,
kisses on my mouth,
my ears, my neck,

later we will wrap
the apples in newspaper to store,
the monk said, fingering an apple,
turning it slowly around
and around, no bruises,
no marks, that's how
they're meant to be,

I tried to sneak a bite of apple
but he was too close
and his eyes would have seen,
but in my mind I took a big bite
and tossed an apple at his head,

she lay there stark naked
on her big double bed
welcoming me,

turneth my heart
towards your degrees,
Dom Henry said,
prayer like, that time
I sorted weeds
by the monk's graves,
molehills, tombstones,

the bell tolled,
the monk said
I could go to prepare
for the office of None,

I sneaked an apple
in my pocket him not seeing,
he unaware
giving him
the friendly stare.