Searching for his crowd
out of the silence of the cloister,
black robes tousled by the nor’-wester,
first bite of heat caught on the brim
of his wide, black hat. Tim says,
‘Were you in there, Mum?’ ‘No, I was
in one for women, Tim, and it wasn’t
the same architecturally, though
there are some similarities.’
‘Were you a nun, Mum?’
‘I was training to be a nun,
but I left and had you instead,
and I am very glad I did.’
Blessed. We will photograph
and sketch and write the river,
the swollen flooded gums,
the yellow crops. The brother,
passing, smiles and nods
in acknowledgement of Tracy’s ‘Hello’.
I get it. I do. And we come here
with something half in mind: polar
opposites yet not cancelling
or missing out. But not balancing
either: we have seen storms brew
over old buildings here, and know
histories of conquest, the prayers
they take to put into effect,
the weight of habit and spiritual
cleanliness. Yet for all that,
we come back, and fluttering robes
are the night and the day,
the body of one, the one body.