FROM THE HILLS

A YOUTH IN AN ABBEY IN 1971 HAUNTED BY A WOMAN

Monks lined up
in the evening cloister,

awaiting the bell for Vespers,
I stood in line,

eyeing the monk in front,
his cowl of black,

hands hidden from sight,
to be a saint

is to be what God
wants us to be

Therese said,
the stars in the square of sky

visible from the cloister,
orange bricks, dark, cold,

of walls and cloister wall,
she opened wide

as if a flower
at morning light,

the bell tolled
and the monks moved

on and in,
two fingers in

the stoup of water,
sign of the cross,

enter she said
come to me,

and I stood in the front stall
of the choir on the left,

smell of incense
still there from Mass,

the huge black book,
Latin words, plainsong music,

He has satisfied
the hungry with things

that are good
Dom Henry said,

I turned page after page,
Hugh beside me toned

his voice like a girl,
the abbot the figure

of Christ amongst us,
vírginis matris cláusula,

we sat and sang,
I listened as I sang

voices about me,
miséricors Dóminus

et iustus,
and she was warm

and sucked and sucked,
I watched the monk opposite,

head to one side,
eyes on the page,

tonsured and thin shouldered,
salty she tasted

salt of sea and fish,
without us God

will not Augustine said,
Dom Frederick whose book I read

spoke to me of
my lawn mowing skills,

from where shall
my help come?

from God,
from the far hills.