Meeting at King’s Manor

The low, slow and slowing bell sound follows,
Echoing over the cloister;
Sunlight, making white stone pillars opal,
Green-centered yellow leaves falling.
The dry crush of footsteps on frozen pebbles,
Then soft slipping varnished stair treads;
Fragrant autumn enters the too-warm room,
And the gold-leaf Mary looks down.
        Your eyes were the colour of broken steel
        Raised up newly in a new way;
        Your skin, the soft hardness of cedar wood,
        Touched into brightness by the cold.