In The Scriptorium (Poetry)
16th June 2014
Hunched on high stools
in the guttering candles’ light
they squint at their copy manuscripts.
Dark stutters of ink
from the beak of each quill
tell the vellum the same sacred tale.
The slow considered scratch of
letters being formed
sounds like birds grown feeble
from cold that cramps fingers into claws
creeps into trained obedient minds
lines whispered into clouds of breath
stream thin...
Strangers in blood turned brothers in faith
robed black as a gathering of rooks
they shuffle and peck, near-silent
then work on
in a puddle’s poor gleam
falling on parchment
its patched yellow surface of translated text
blot-dark with human error.
in the guttering candles’ light
they squint at their copy manuscripts.
Dark stutters of ink
from the beak of each quill
tell the vellum the same sacred tale.
The slow considered scratch of
letters being formed
sounds like birds grown feeble
from cold that cramps fingers into claws
creeps into trained obedient minds
lines whispered into clouds of breath
stream thin...
Strangers in blood turned brothers in faith
robed black as a gathering of rooks
they shuffle and peck, near-silent
then work on
in a puddle’s poor gleam
falling on parchment
its patched yellow surface of translated text
blot-dark with human error.