The nuns at St Dominic’s Priory
wear sadness beneath white habits
like barn owls swooping low
calm, secure, deadly, they slide
away until the cloisters open to a square rose garden
where light falls between the trellis’ trawl of creepers
weaves complicated shadows.
The din of the quiet haunts;
footsteps on stone stairs or the
rattle of cutlery against plates
the meal taken speechless
yet never silent.
There is always desire
welling in your secret places, despite
chaste mind, clean fingertips, pure spirit
the body never forgets its children.
And the curb of the old ways is lost one piece
at a time with the old sisters buried
the fire grows in your flesh.
