is that possible? They stand around your bed in the light which is filtered through mosquito nets, like those of a waking child in another place, shadowy behind a scrim. Power! Power! So, he had found the beginnings of our history here?
Chunky lorries, almost like toys, those dinky cars we played with as boys, the ones of his I still have in a box somewhere at Malgretoute, were descending the terraced excavation, being loaded and then making the ascent. Huge arc lamps were harnessed to very tall pylons and girders for night work. Their metal glinted in the afternoon sun. My horror turned to awe and then fascination at the work. A notice told me that blasting took place between 11.00 a.m. and 2.00 p.m. I was safe. It was 2.45 p.m. I hadn’t heard any blasting earlier. I circled the escarpment and then descended the other bank intoa wood of silver birches, losing myself before finding my yellow trail again. I was lost among the silver birches.
They’re holding hands. Look at them now. Phrases and conversations with myself, with him, his words. He’s become word to me.
Dreams still haunt. Dogs - the cry of dogs still sounds where the water trembles over small blue stones the colour of blue blood, tongues lapping at the blood, flowing into the lake in the spinney. I see another running. Then, he turns, and throws a stone.
My memory haemorrhages with his words, phrases, metaphors.
In another river, in another place, a boy dives like a shaft of light into a bronze rock pool. Like an angel, scarlet like the petals of the flamboyante.
I make his poetry mine.
Both of them, angels? Athletes, angels! No, hardly angels.
The Feast Day
In his longed-for shade I am seated
and his fruit is sweet to my taste…
Song of Songs
The polished oak staircase ascended from the sacristy through three floors to where it tapered and became a smaller winding stair to the attic. It was Brother Aelred’s daily chore to sweep these stairs, dust the banisters and polish both the stairs and the banisters after Prime, before going to his cell for Lectio Divina, his daily spiritual reading. It was divine reading. Legere et audire, to read and to hear, was the injunction. For these chores, he changed into a simple, cotton, denim smock with a hood, tied at the waist with his leather girdle: the girdle of chastity which the abbot had wound around his waist at his clothing.
The impressive staircase ascended in tiers. At the third landing was a mezzanine floor which housed the monastic library. Then the staircase continued up to the first, second and third floors on which were the cells of the senior monks. Those corridors were out of bounds for the novices. This was different to what the Rule of St Benedict instructed: ‘The younger brethren shall not have their beds by themselves, but shall be mixed with the seniors.’ Now, they were forbidden to go to a senior monk’s cell.
It was now seven thirty in the morning. Prime had been at seven o’clock, and the community had been up since three thirty for the singing of Matins and Lauds, after which there were the Low Masses of the priests of thecommunity. Brother Aelred had served the prior’s Mass this morning.
Aelred had already had his breakfast of toast, honey and coffee. His enthusiasm for his new life was evident in his prompt rising for Matins, and his preparation for and participation in the liturgy. He took his daily chores seriously. If Father Justin, the novice master, had anything to correct in his charge, it was a tendency to rush from one thing to the other. ‘All things in moderation, brother.’ His enthusiasm would eventually have to be checked.
Before he had taken up his official chore of sweeping and dusting the oak staircase, he had already been out to the garden in the cloister and picked fresh flowers for the Lady Altar in the novitiate corridor. There were daffodils and pussy willow, which he liked. Before those, there had been a carpet of snowdrops and crocuses. He learnt
Chunky lorries, almost like toys, those dinky cars we played with as boys, the ones of his I still have in a box somewhere at Malgretoute, were descending the terraced excavation, being loaded and then making the ascent. Huge arc lamps were harnessed to very tall pylons and girders for night work. Their metal glinted in the afternoon sun. My horror turned to awe and then fascination at the work. A notice told me that blasting took place between 11.00 a.m. and 2.00 p.m. I was safe. It was 2.45 p.m. I hadn’t heard any blasting earlier. I circled the escarpment and then descended the other bank intoa wood of silver birches, losing myself before finding my yellow trail again. I was lost among the silver birches.
They’re holding hands. Look at them now. Phrases and conversations with myself, with him, his words. He’s become word to me.
Dreams still haunt. Dogs - the cry of dogs still sounds where the water trembles over small blue stones the colour of blue blood, tongues lapping at the blood, flowing into the lake in the spinney. I see another running. Then, he turns, and throws a stone.
My memory haemorrhages with his words, phrases, metaphors.
In another river, in another place, a boy dives like a shaft of light into a bronze rock pool. Like an angel, scarlet like the petals of the flamboyante.
I make his poetry mine.
Both of them, angels? Athletes, angels! No, hardly angels.
The Feast Day
In his longed-for shade I am seated
and his fruit is sweet to my taste…
Song of Songs
The polished oak staircase ascended from the sacristy through three floors to where it tapered and became a smaller winding stair to the attic. It was Brother Aelred’s daily chore to sweep these stairs, dust the banisters and polish both the stairs and the banisters after Prime, before going to his cell for Lectio Divina, his daily spiritual reading. It was divine reading. Legere et audire, to read and to hear, was the injunction. For these chores, he changed into a simple, cotton, denim smock with a hood, tied at the waist with his leather girdle: the girdle of chastity which the abbot had wound around his waist at his clothing.
The impressive staircase ascended in tiers. At the third landing was a mezzanine floor which housed the monastic library. Then the staircase continued up to the first, second and third floors on which were the cells of the senior monks. Those corridors were out of bounds for the novices. This was different to what the Rule of St Benedict instructed: ‘The younger brethren shall not have their beds by themselves, but shall be mixed with the seniors.’ Now, they were forbidden to go to a senior monk’s cell.
It was now seven thirty in the morning. Prime had been at seven o’clock, and the community had been up since three thirty for the singing of Matins and Lauds, after which there were the Low Masses of the priests of thecommunity. Brother Aelred had served the prior’s Mass this morning.
Aelred had already had his breakfast of toast, honey and coffee. His enthusiasm for his new life was evident in his prompt rising for Matins, and his preparation for and participation in the liturgy. He took his daily chores seriously. If Father Justin, the novice master, had anything to correct in his charge, it was a tendency to rush from one thing to the other. ‘All things in moderation, brother.’ His enthusiasm would eventually have to be checked.
Before he had taken up his official chore of sweeping and dusting the oak staircase, he had already been out to the garden in the cloister and picked fresh flowers for the Lady Altar in the novitiate corridor. There were daffodils and pussy willow, which he liked. Before those, there had been a carpet of snowdrops and crocuses. He learnt
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