Water In The Stoup Mcmlxxi Poem by Terry Collett

The water in the stoup
was cold and my fingers
tingled like a bell
in a shallow wind,

Dom James took us novices
to a convent where he
had to say Mass
a young nun served us
coffee and cake
in a small room
away from the cloister
fresh faced and angelic
in her framed headgear,

Dei pulchritudinis,

the tall monk tolled
the cloister bell
before the office of Terce
black robed and thin of face,

ascoltare Dio nel
vostro cuore
the Italian monk said to me
as we laid the tables
in the refectory,

she held my pecker
in her two hands
like a snake charmer
charming,

George spoke of the coldness
about him his hands he said
stiffen in the coldness,

Dieu est proche même
dans nos heures sombres
the French monk said
when he saw me
looking down at my feet,

I snuggled between
her soft mounds
as she sang a Beatles' song
and I kissed her milkiness,

I fear not Satan
as much as I fear
those who fear him
said St Teresa of Avila
I read some place,

I twisted the apples
from the branches
as shown by the plump monk
(after Lunch) in the orchard
tempted to bite
but didn't placed
in a basket with the gentleness
of a child,

et quaerebant eum
tangere manu Dei,

Ambition said Gareth
quoting Spinoza
is the immoderate
desire for power,

I walked the dark cloisters
after Compline
the bell tolled me
to my early sleep,

the young nun's womb
was as closed
as a castle's keep.