Mary Taylor
The Nunnery, Iona
I, Saint Columba
banish women.
Do not lust in your heart.
Nights here are hard, long and dark,
the wind pierces wattle and daub.
We hunger for warmth
and the villagers disturb:
young girls wreathed in orchids
ivy and meadowsweet ...
I, Abbot Dominic
believe in the Word.
Solomon had three hundred
concubines.
I did not plunder,
merely did my duty
as I unveiled the nuns.
I, the Abbess
prefer lapdogs.
It is better to marry
than burn with passion.
Maybe, but he abandoned me
and frost blackens desire.
Prayer, we depend on prayer
and he hears us, the perfect lover.
With him, we shall walk strands of light,
bring to birth his image.
Mist descends,
the ruins fall quiet.
Poppies bleed on granite
and petals of starched campion
drift to earth.
Page(s) 10-11
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