Against The Cold Mcmlxx. Poem by Terry Collett

The French peasant monk
scythed the tall grass
by the drive to the abbey
he spat
on his creased palms
before work,

Dio è lontano
ma vicino
the Italian monk said
after Mass
clearing the items away
and I aiding him,

deep bell tolling
from the tall bell tower
echoing across
the surrounding area
down
to the seashore,

sans nous Dieu
ne nous sauvera
pas sans Dieu
nous ne pouvons pas
the the French monk said
quoting someone religious
from some book,

incense
in the air
mixing
with baked bread
and cold stones aged,

I gazed at the cloister
felt along
the waist high
orange brick wall
musing on the flower bed
where a monk
on his knees
weeded,

la confiance en Dieu
et non votre
propre faiblesse
the French monk
chided me
as I peeled potatoes
for lunch,

silence after Compline
deeper than an ocean's depth
more profound
than Plato's musing,

pale moon
casting shadows
in the cloister's hold,

I hugging myself
during Vespers
against the harsh cold.