Fill My Hole 1971 Poem by Terry Collett

I smelt the morning air
as I walked the cloister
from church to kitchen,

oratio est labor,

Dom Francis busy
about the pots and pans said
bring me cabbage
from the walled garden
so I did,

the French peasant monk
wheeled a barrow
as if loaded
with the world's sins
over the rough grounds
of the abbey,

we must sow the seed
not hoard it
Dominic said,

sew your seeds in me
she said fill me
with yourself
and your squiggling fishes,

sunlight through
the high windows
of the refectory
as I swept the floor
but the sunlight stayed
with its tiny
particles floating,

Dieu voit tout
the French monk said
as he aided me
in the apple orchard
plucking fruit,

she opened to me
her valley and garden
and I dug deep,

the punishment
of every disordered mind
is its own disorder
Augustine of Hippo said,

I lay the benches for lunch
with jugs and bowls of fruit
and watched the Crucified
on the wall
above the abbot's bench
high above my head,

das Gefühl Gott in dir
the Austrian monk said
as I mowed
the monk's graveyard,

I sensed God
in me some days
other days nothing
but an empty wind
through the hollowness
of my soul,

come she said
lying there
on her bed
enter me
fill my hole.