Watches and alarm clocks dropped In the mire of the quotidien, At what season, Lord, to this corner do you come? Dawn and dusk are the one time now, They have shrugged off all but the holy hours When the door may open to them, Their robes pulled over the raddled cardigans. Only the growing and the wasting of the light Speaks to them of the untimed, the possible Improbable descent of the dove Upon its lawful downstroke to release The crushing thunder of its love. Brother Silesius puts aside the work board Closes the psalter, dusts his knees and rings A single bell inscribed with the one word Filioque, And by the son the centuries Have raised these woods in leaf to shelter them. Simeon in wellies rakes the byre Opening a path for their one cow To come to milking. She shrugs crossly At the stall side, kicks. He whistles, washing Her teats, pulling them gently. Lady, by your intercession it is That these men, sons of your son, Make of this time a holy thing.