Chris McDonnell, UK
christymac733@gmail.com

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January 2, 2019

Time and the bell

have buried the day (1)

her prayer time concluded

with mid-afternoon quietness

this late December.

We never met in person,

only through her books

and once a year,

an exchange of cards,

a Collection or two of gathered words.

Her written message

sometimes took time to decipher,

small-formed letters

through which she told her story

but often left you guessing

as to meaning.

Bold card images spoke a beauty

we both could understand,

images that didn’t need language

nor a hand-held pen

offering casual explanation,

their hovering light,

a sight of stillness,

a glow of warmth.

Yet when she spoke of artists

and their work,

her feminine voice,

buoyant with enthusiastic joy,

awoke the senses

with the glory of their gift,

as, in her nun’s black habit,

she told a story.

Sunlight and shadow,

touched with her eloquence,

sang softly

and delicately danced.

From her small,

solitary space

she shared her erudition, sprung

from her simple woodland home

nurturing place

of personal prayer and writing,

an expressive care

for those who would listen.

In the afternoon of the day

that followed Christ's Nativity

the bell rang a final time,

approaching the final stair.

(1) Burnt Norton 4 from the Four Quartets T S Eliot

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