St. John's Monastery, ink and quill workshop after presentation on illumination.

the ink

is ground

soot and water

soot they say

from candles

burnt 200 years ago

when the night

pressed more closely

and light was wavery and

precious

soot from candles

of cow fat

running greasy cross lamp

panes and glossing

roof beams hand-hewn

with marks of adze and drawknife

chewn like bones

i take a turn

at the inkstone

enthralling, black thickening

like blood of light

guttering out

if i were a monk

i would make a prayer of this

and i would grind

till my arm ached

and i would stoop

each day over scraped calf

skin and dip the quill

and bleed it dry

dip and dry

my hand like a heart

pumping soot

into Word of God

for every last dark drop

of light's castaway

say at each stroke-sway

rising and ending

sharp as a knife

so make these ashes

of my life