Freepik
Steeped in vision, and
clad in swooping robes of monasticmystic
She fleets down the centuries,
with fluttering wimple of swallowwhite
amid the dark cloth
She speaks of sardines and souls,
practicality and mysticism.
She walks - soundless - into my thought;
to perch, laughing and
smile full of mischief
on the coldledge there
to stare dreamlessly out over landscapes
of blastedrocks and withered elmbranches
within which I live
in the plight of our world.
Undaunted; she chuckles
as the plight now was the plight then
of love unwanted; of God denied;
of Divinity unchecked like a swirling river
over the barrendesert of our souls
taking our earthlydust in its wake
And leaving nothing behind
if we have no faith-roots, no rich earth,
no verdantgrass, no spreading
beechtrees able to accept the
waterdivinity of God.
She dreams of long ago,
as she sits tucked up there,
hand under chin,
sandalled feet quiet.
She thinks of sunsplashed Avilastreets
and fountains in the sun
Of two children, one redkerchiefed,
trudging off to meet adventure.
As her dreams
are my dreams -
Mysticism and union
with Godtrinity
within the soul.
Eventually she leaves
as the day darkens,
quietly as a thief stealing from my soul
My friend; our sister,
church mentor.
Teresa; a saint that age cannot touch
that time cannot wither
that centuries cannot diminish
nor deny.
CATHERINE NICOLETTE WHITTLE
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