The Priesthood
A dormitory and a single bed, two chairs and a corner window. Moments in solitude, time to reflect. In the distance, the low hills. Twenty-three weeks until the harvest and the priesthood, ploughing the fields, working the mill, the school of the soul. In between scriptures, he stacked bails and scrubbed floors in the old
The Recital
I met you just twenty minutes ago, in the coffee bar, when we were introduced. And we took our seats as strangers, the recital about to begin, hushed whispers. And then Marion starts the Capriccio, and we agree under soft tones that her passion is overwhelming, her hands strong, but gentle, fingers on white ivory