Martha Sweeping 1965.

Martha swept the cloister

with the wide bristle broom.

First of all she dampened

the floor with some water

to lay the dust, she flicked

water from a hand brush.

As she swept she thought of

the nun in charge of her,

that strictness of her tone,

that exactness of voice,

so dictatorial,

not an ounce of love there,

no compassion at all.

As she swept she heard birds

singing from the cloister

garth, and sunlight shone there,

and where sunlight couldn’t 

reach, the shadows held ground.

Before Matins she spoke

to the Crucified hung

from His cross on the wall

in her room. She whispered

to Him, her words gentle,

reflecting on her life

in the convent, of her

daily chores, of her prayers

contained in each word said.  

The cloister clock chimed time

on the quarter hour.

She wanted to save souls

from Purgatory’s depths,

to help release souls there,

but sweeping the cloister,

was not the way she thought.

Prayer and sacrifice were

what she considered right,

not these odd jobs given.

She’d ask the Crucified

when she next spoke to Him.

The cloister garth was bright,

but in the shadows dim.