The Novice Mcmlxxi Poem by Terry Collett

The Italian monk
eyed me
in the refectory.

I watched him
I had no choice
he was opposite me.

He ate slow
his jaw moving
to a slow rhythm.

God centered
he said later
in the scullery
as we washed
the dishes
after lunch
that is what we are
God centered he said.

Sunlight filtered
through the coloured glass
of the refectory
on to the polished
wooden floor
I gazed at it
while the monk read
from some book
on Oliver Cromwell
in a mono-toned voice.

We sat in her lounge
she kissed me
whispered
suggestive things
in my ear
in her warm
sexy voice
and we did.

George tolled the bell
for the office of Vespers
I lined up behind
the tall dark
tonsured monk
who smelt
of baked bread.

The afternoon light
was bright
and shone
through the branches
of the one tree
in the cloister garth.

Focus on God
the French monk
said to me
in French
Gareth
translated for me
I said I would
or did
or some
such answer
in my poor French.

Whatever you do
do with all your heart
Dom Joseph said
quoting St Paul
as we sat
on the private beach
of the abbey
the other novices
tossed stones along
the incoming tide.

She shut her mutt
in the kitchen
where it whined
we went
to her bedroom
and had sex.

She not thinking
of her husband
coming home
from his job
but I thinking
of just that
imagining him
standing by
the bedroom door
with a displeased face.

The bell
for Compline rang
the monks stood
in the choir stalls
in their black robes.

I stood
in the semi dark
mouthing
the Latin chant
of the office
the others
were professional
I was just a novice.