The nuns caught me, hasty one,
pressing to arrive too soon.
There was no time for the drive back home
to Bedford where the older girls were born,
your world. I broke the chain.
And you, a bit, though not alone –
bruised from the loss already borne.
In the gap before, almost, a son.
Later I would imagine them, a ring
of wimpled sisters, as I tumbled in.
My kindly aliens, The Nuns.
Mysterious guardians, like something
out of Madeline. Not knowing then
about the veil that fell across your face –
low winter sun, so little air or light
where you had spiralled to, or from.
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