Kirchenschiff – the German word: the nave is a ship.
Here too, in Saint-Wandrille, the monastic chapel’s wooden
hull upturned. So are we drowned? And in what ocean?
The vault of God’s old weathered ear that holds the space
where incense rises. The pale, thin novices, arch-sober schoolboys,
pace out their chants. The golden fetish, suspended in strange
flight above the empty stone. The humid green of
Norman forests stirs. The light is changing, slowly.
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