They walk in silence,
the men in white robes.
thinking of beer and cheese
in the dark evening..
They sing in darkness,
lighting candles at nocturnes
waiting for the intonation
before the bird's chorus..
They pray in lightness,
waiting for those who
bring their horses
into the sanctuaries
of the Nine Altars,
trampling the Body
of the Vulnerable God
unwilling servants
of the Visitators, who
bragged to Cromwell
(the first one) of such
sacrilege and hate.
They draw water from
other wells and die in
small cottages of those
who take them in
the sheepherders who
are not afraid of the
King's Men, sensing
where God is..
Mary's springs still seep
from the hillsides and
down into the small
Skell, rippling in the wind.
Our Lady of Fountains,
I love you...
