We started up the winding road
You said shall we walk
to the top of the hill above
the monastery? in the
brisk and gentle off-hand way
you use when you want to suggest
something matters less
than it really does.
I said why not? for the sand
was fast running through
the narrow waist of the glass
and it mattered terribly to me.
I knew we would soon
be forced separate ways
and though spared from
hearing someone shout the
hour glass is out!
I knew our parting would
be a shock to me and so it was
(religious reasons were not consoling).
After some dusty tracks, we made
the top of the highest crest
which crowns the woods and hayfields
and Mary Lake below--
lovelier now in recollection.
It is quite a large farm you said but
my inner eye saw ancient Rome below
instead and my heart grieved over
the tribute levied against me.
I sought a tree to sit beneath but
its shade did not break the August anvil-
each word I spoke became a nail
every thought a hammer.
It's better to walk again I said, but I
chose to jump a six foot rack of hay,
sprawled across it on my belly
and watched you do a kind of arabesque-
your lanky stride brought short
into a turn, palms outstretched
shirt-tail and cuffs awry,
thin against the azure sky:
To be a saint you prayed
and close to God is my desire.
I want to be a good man I replied
beyond this I know nothing more,
except that I am at home in the
rhythm of religious life.
The days are cooler now, the autumn
benediction has begun--
the repertoire of trees has changed
to harmonies of gold and crimson.
I feel the brisk percussion of my quickened
steps, somehow hoping time itself can
march more quickly than ruthless change
and will restore to me the one
who dances in my heart,
fleshes out the God of love
and holds the link we forged
upon the hill.
September 14, 1989
