Autumn Testament (1)

As I come down the hill from Toro Poutini’s house My feet are sore, being bare, on the sharp stones And that is a suitable penance. The dust of the pa road Is cool, though, and I can see The axe of the moon shift down behind the trees Very slowly. The red light from the windows Of the church has a ghostly look, and in This place ghosts are real. The bees are humming loudly In moonlight in their old hive above the church door Where I go in to kneel, and come out to make my way Uphill past a startled horse who plunges in the paddock Above the nunnery. Now there are one or two Of the tribe back in the big house—What would you have me do, King Jesus? Your games with me have turned me into a boulder.