SCRIBE

[An aged Monk sits in his scriptorium, exhausted by his labours on some work of enduring beauty, perhaps the Book of Kells. He wipes his reed clean, checks with loving care that the vellum before him, its great capital letter illuminated in glowing red and gold, is safely dry. He sighs - the day has been long, his old bones ache, his old eyes are wearied by the flickering light of the torches blown in the draughts whistling around his old, tonsured head - but

another page is completed, for the eternal glory of God and the enduring joy of His people ... ]

My pen went riding, riding home,
Over the shell-backed Gospel tome.
The romance, the beauty of that great Book
Voiceless, to my very heart I took.
The diaphanous image of my mirrored soul
Fell in a shower to the chalice bowl.
As February's chill presaged the choice
Of the way, clear-painted by Ash Wednesday's voice,
When the fill of the cornucopia was done,
And redemption rose with the Easter sun.
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