Disbelieving
On hands
and knees,
I crawl,
shielding
The
hum-bright hive,
Tilted honey
spilling unspoiled
Bees
trail a curling Kyrie
Up between
linden’s fingers
Disbelieving
that they would
Until
they came
A storm
of the king’s sending,
No
pilgrimage of grace
Tripping
me out of my habit
La belle
Roche,
Melts
into pewter, stone, timber, lead
What will
become of me?
I lick my
fingers
As the
sword descends,
Taste only
honey, blood,
Thyme from
the shadows of the kitchen-garden.
Refectorium
Buzz and
banter
Swims
into silent
No stone
unturned
Into rectangles
of hollow
Mapped matins
and misericord
Long
since sung.
