Fragments Of The Cloister Mcmlxix Poem by Terry Collett

The old monk
almost slipped on the snow
on the path from
garden to abbey
he balanced unsteady
like a tightrope walker
on a windy day,

Dios oye así que
debemos también
the Spanish monk
said to me in
the cloister garth
as we weeded
the flower beds
that spring,

God listens so
ought we too
Dom Peter had said
I remembered
removing a huge weed
with a trowel,

la science de l'amour
oui c'est le seul genre
de science que je veux
Therese of Lisieux said
some place I read,

I held the bell rope
rough between hands
pulled with George
for the office of Terce
holding on with a tight grip
then letting go
at the right time,

Hugh talked of his father
and how proud he was
having a monk
as a son or near enough
still a novice,

mε το πάτημα της αγάπης
ο καθένας γίνεται ποιητής
Gareth said quoting Plato
love turns all to poets
or something like
I assumed,

moonlight made shadows
in the cloister as I walked
in and out of light
then in darkness
so was my soul,

mounds in the monk's graveyard
where I mowed
that creature of God
the mole.