DIM OF LIGHT.

A YOUNG MAN ON THE BRINK OF MONKHOOD IN 1971

The light in the cloister,
followed me, orange
bricks the cloister walls,
flowers in the flower beds, 


the moon's light still there,
seen out of the corner
of my eye.  Have mercy God,
uttered words, the

refectory, fresh bread(smell
of it), urn of tea or coffee,
the Grand Silence, none may
speak, silence at tables,

face to window light,
coloured glass, chill of
morning’s touch. I wanted
like to see her face. I did

see it, bright face, eyes
searching. What position
would you like me?

The tall monk, dark tonsured,
stood beside me, nibbling
brown bread, hand held tea

steaming. What position?
I recalled her that time,
undressed, mouthing soft

mutterings: How is this?
The silence all around, no
sound, the silence of God,

Dom Joseph had said,
breath it in, inhale Him.
The light is not so bright,
here my God, it is dim.