SNOW AND MONKS MCMLXIX.

A YOUNG MAN IN AN ABBEY IN 1969

Snow in the garth

hanging on the branches

of the tree

like fingers of white

dea candidis,

the old monk shuffled

through ankle deep snow

cowled head bowed

hands hidden

in his black habit

wind moving about him,

Dei qui tollit

peccatum humilis

confessionis facit

Dom George said

quoting St Bernard

humble confessions

is the key he added,

white snow

on the window ledge

unspoilt untouched

et quasi virgo pura,

bell tolled heavy

bell disturbing snow

on the bell tower

rooks took flight

into the white sky,

parlare con Dio

the Italian monk said

lui ascolta,

I watched

the French monk

sweep snow from the path

long snow shovels

he moved,

un ange à votre coude

Dom François said

I gazed at my elbow

but saw no angel,

snow drifted across

the abbey like fleeing ghosts

twirling and twirling

round and round,

I read in the common room

a book on prayer

worn edges

aged sleeve

smell of damp and time,

Gott ist gut

the Austrian monk said

eyeing me

a small smile lingering

on his lips

I said nothing

but nodded slow,

after office of Sext

and lunch

I told the Prior

I would have to

pack my bag and go.