Being There Mcmlxviii Poem by Terry Collett

That tall thin monk
dark and angular
reading in the refectory
from in sancti Benedicti regula
he reminded me
of a teacher at high school
whose name eluded me,

I took in the high bell tower
orange bricked
straight up pointing to heaven
misty clouded
I viewed from my window
in the abbey,

colui che ci ha creati
senza il nostro aiuto
non ci salverà senza
il nostro consenso
sant'Agostino
an Italian monk said
quoting St Augustine,

I read in the common room
leaning against the radiator
Abbas Marmion
black covered book
well worn
heat from the radiator
warming me up
against dull cold day,

parler à Dieu
the French monk said to me
talk to God that is part
of prayer
partie de la prière
and I talked
in my own fashion,

bell tolled from bell tower
la voce di Dio
the bells calling
to work or prayer
Dom Joe said
sitting in the old armchair
in the guest room
where I stayed
they guide us
la cloche parle,

loved the cloisters
the medieval sense
wind there in the day
or late in the evening
after Vespers
moon light in cloister garth,

voices along the passage
from other guests' rooms
some one spoke
another gave
a hollow laugh.