Cloistered,
high above the churchyard,
the old monk sat alone,
reading from his gold bound bible
in the softly fading glow
of his slowly burning candle,
scratching with his quill,
"Deus Leges Dei Hominibus."

The soft night mist
fell silently on the window,
slowly rolling down the saints,
leaking through the ceiling -
dripping, dripping, dripping -
into the chalice
set in the corner to catch it.

A nighthawk,
feathers ruffled in the rain,
returned to her nest
in the crevice
where the bell used to be
with food for its young.
And without thinking,
returned to the wind
above the waves
breaking from the sea.

March 1982