This morning I woke to quiet so big
you could steer the QE II through it. Light
sung loud as loons, the Abbey bells rung bright
as Christ’s gold leaf icon shining in its niche.
Beyond the trees and up the hill, the monks gather.
They keep the hours in the pleats of their cowls,
offer them, daily bread, to each brother,
a psalm for each body, prayers for all souls.
Then they turn and file past the Body
nailed wooden to the wood they each revere,
bow their already-bowed and bent bodies,
touch their fingers to the feet they tender dear.
Quiet so big I hear their distant chants
drifting on the breath of peace Christ grants.
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