The Disciple

He kneels before the cubby,
Raises cupped hands to the icon
Shining in the slight
Impress of a candle, and he prays:

“Father, in the darkened priory,
Where only the foot-steps echo
Of the monks, pacing the day’s
Declining pace, murmuring words
That, for themselves, are already indistinct,
Obscured by habit and by habit
Obscure, I look for your light,
Even though it seems another sound
Among the sounds: clatter of silverware
On plates, Father Anthony snoring, scribes
Scratching onto the page
The numbers that are our keep.”

The icon is the glow of the candle
In amber coloured glass,
And it articulates a space
That is the shadow of the icon
In the shadows that it lifts
And with the shadows that it makes.