Vespers: The Balcony, and: Eclogue

VESPERS: The Balcony / David St. John They held to the rhythms of the day In a style less frequent Than imagined. She was tearing away The soft, pocked rind of the orange When the light across the bakery windows Shivered a little with the clouds, Though that was just the simple signal Of the weather being pleased With itself. The orange was one whose Blood had mellowed, had mottled On the rind; a dust of rust Not to be confused with the real Passage of time, and other things . . . She looked down onto the city— Listen, he said, and the weight Of the air shifted. A vine less Strung than they'd first supposed Dangled at the worn edge of The railing. Below, as the light Ribboned the hills, the last monks Walked deliberately From their cloisters, and the one She used to wave at looked up Just as he turned the final corner Of the gardens, heading to the chapel for vespers. You see, she said. You see? (Vespers) The Missouri Review · 253 ECLOGUE / David St. John (The perfection of David, the sad Pieta, TheMedicitombs, and themarkets smellingofleather. . .) They left it all, crossing the river, walking Into the hills. Clouds pumped over the valley, The Arno swelled its curves. As they Reached a sudden crest Looking down onto the city, the elegant Villas scattered on the hillsides below, he saw Through the olive groves—stretched out on a patch Of grass—a young shepherd, dressed In white jeans and a red down jacket, watching over A meandering flock. He heard the boy whistling To a dog. He thought: Where did I put them, my own Notched reed pipes? He felt his thighs turn fleecy, And putting the pipes to his mouth He played the first notes of "A New Shepherd's Calendar," And she looked at him, patient and understanding, Pulling out a book to read as she sat On the stone bench, turning so the broken Sunlight fell over her shoulder and onto the page. In the distance, the sheep moved slowly towards another Grassy grove. As the wind dropped, he began to play The notes meant to accompany: After Months of Raine Snow and Sleete Dog, Sheepe, And Man Come into Heete And when the scent of the wild mint hit, He leaned back against the twisted trunk of an olive, Seeing everywhere in the fields below Not the trees and grass, not the shepherd and sheep, But instead: the airy cells of monks, those cells Of San Marco painted by Fra Angélico (the frescoes Somehow fresh as the blood of the stigmata the young Shepherd had noticed on each palm that morning, Pulling on gloves before taking out the flock . . . Though the boy'd decided it was nothing, Just blisters broke by 254 · The Missouri Review The rough handles of the new used Moto Guzzi Bought from the sister of a dead friend). And yet As the vision grew and broke, what Was he seeing?—Not the boy, no, not the shepherd's Gloved and stained palms, but the wall at the top Of the stairway . . . Angelico's Annunciation . . . An angel whose scalloped, florid wings opened With a peacock's iridescence. He leaned forward, On one knee, before her . . . and as she looked Up from her book, the gray vaults of the sky Split with light. And though he proposed Nothing new, nothing she hadn't already believed, Still it's true that within her, she knew, The future that grew Was clear, like the promise of lilies in spring. (Florence) David St. John THE MISSOURI REVIEW · 255 ...