In the month of May,
In the depths of my old school,
The corridors were lined
With acquiescent girls –
Some in chapel veils –
As well as the odd boy.
Along the stringed beads
The nimble fingers moved,
The nimble fingers which
I daily ached to touch.

In that hour before the bell,
I was possessed by all
The murmuring and clacking,
The concentrated air
Of girls – some of them veiled! –
Caught up in adoration.
And though, in truth, I could
Have done with the extra sleep,
The thick stupor of prayer
Only strengthened my desire

For one among them there.