A Hallowed Place

Once I know that silence is in charge
I step inside, the oak door drags its cloak.
The hallway: shiny tiles, twisting banisters,
Wall clock ticks; letters sprawled on mahogany
Polished for phantom visits and whistling deans
Up to my left the chapel corridor stroll
And a scary, inhibited, hallowed silence
Fermented by men in soutanes and black suits
Bares my mind of the clothes of present times.
Moving forward, my shoes tap into the past,
From where I stand, the place comes alive
And I hear the sprints of giddy boarders
And bells summoning us to the refectory,
The keys ringing their famous tunes, prayers
Mumbled through early morning sleeping spells
Echoes of plucked strings from the tower
The laughter from the dormitory stairs
And the slap of the leather for our sins.
Yes, I visit the silence: in fact I often do,
And always lose moments wondering;
Seeking sense, looking for lost friends.
Now that this place has lost its use
What will become of the empty beds?
And the statues, holy pictures and rosaries?
And when I am old, will legends linger
Of lives that filled rooms with dreams
And breathed reason into the rituals.
I smell the lukewarm altar candle wax
And the fried potatoes, beans and meat,
I hear the gunshots from Saturday film reels,
And the hiss of the apple-crush bottle tops,
I taste the cut-chips from Tommie’s shop,
And the chlorine from Davnet’s pool,
My senses wetter with each moment sown
My sketches more intense, more real
As she holds my hand; a forgotten mother.
And as I draw myself from her clasp;
Standing outside, I glance at it again,
This empty house on saintly soil
Offers me its whisperings and songs,
Solely woven to the ears and hearts
Of its former boys and older priests,
Its chapters folded as it rests its soul
Like a tombstone, no words inscribed
Just the lyrics of a happy ghostly child.

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