Thunderclaps at St. Florentine

Drips echo in the hall like rustling leaves.
The constant sashay of unrest becomes soothing.
The columns are growing tired of webs,
We never asked to be born stone.
No one offered us a stormcloud role,
and now we watch insects tie themselves to death
instead of parading across poles
with sky spray and the full,
smooth mouths of the wind.

They moan until the floor is cold.
The black cat pads across for a drink.
Rain keeps up her lip licked shush.

A monk in gold robes
swings his beaded bells
and smoke cauldron in silence.
Pausing to weave a prayer
on behalf of the arrogance of the pillars
he heard grumbling for the sixth time tonight.
He shudders at the thunder
that the abbey stones envy,
knowing that it’s the clouds
screaming from being burned alive
by the unseen rising light.
He boils the water for breakfast on the lawn
for it will all be over by morning.