It was the old nun,
Sister John Jiggins,
Who'd come to her room
That night at the old

Guesthouse, to talk to
Her about the life
Of contemplative
Nuns, the ancient Rule

Of the Order, what
To expect, who was
Who, and looking back
She remembered that

Old nun's fingers, thin,
Arthritic, as if
They were about to
Die before she was,

The old nun, with her
Furrowed brow, her grey
Eyes, and features that
Beauty had left some

Years hence, if beauty
Ever resided
There at all, she mused,
Thinking of the dank

Odour of death's touch,
The stretched old skin, and
The nun's words like hooks,
Attempting to catch

A young girl, like some
Fish, for the Order's
Noviciate and
Thinking she had failed.