AN ANGELUS TOLLED.

MONKS AND A NOVICE IN AN ABBEY IN 1971

The squat,

Yorkshire monk,

pulls on the rope

and tolls

the Angelus bell;

his smooth hands

allow

the rough rope

to rub against

his skin,

rough on smooth.

I flushed the latrines

of the abbey,

having cleaned

with a stiff brush;

I recall her

mouthing my fellow;

her dark eyes

closing

as a dying moon.

The old French monk

scythes the tall grass,

his cutting swoop wide,

a studied look,

a prayer moaned

inside.

Reviews

[Kelly Scheppers]

"...her dark eyes closing as a dying moon." Your poetry takes my breath away...what exquisite lines you write with poetic flair!

[Terry Collett]

Thank you, Kelly. You, too have equal talents as a writer.