De Profundis Poem by Donatien Moisdon

Wind and rain batter the ivy and stone
of giant and dead Norman monasteries.

In days now blurry from the spray of time
monks, joyous or mad
or satisfied or tortured by their faith,
ghosts in brownish gowns, would drift endlessly.

Who can now recall even one of them?

Dislocated tombs, field-mice empires,
still circle the dark and thorny socket
where stood an altar.

Huge boulders rising like rigid nightmares
bully their ways through soggy climbing plants.

High above, arches, naked granite frames
criss-cross the roofless vault of Gothic form
where clouds cold and grey roll, monotonous.

A wild apple-tree, half-way up, shivers
stunted, obstinate, in the emptiness
of what used to be stain-glass fireworks.

Bushes hiss during icy Winter nights,
wind howling at walls and around corners
of vast, condemned, Norman echo chambers.