Every night for a thousand years, I visited you alone in your cell.

I was entranced by your beauty, black hair glistening on alabaster skin, the thin threads like gossamer cloth on your flesh I wanted to touch.

My night time visit became a check-in. I could not believe it. Every time I walked by, you were, yes, still there.

Slowly, we began to settle in, secret guests of the monks of Le Mont Saint Michel.

I visited always, and always, you were still there.

At times, I wondered if you were some ghost there to haunt us. I began to linger, to hear the silent whispers of your prayers. Ave Maria, gratia plena.

Years passed. Our associations with the kind monks evaporated from memory. We were forgotten in our darkness and I knew you must be one of us, some relic of a bygone age.

One by one and two by two,our companions left, ready now to enter a world which had become safe.

Meanwhile, in our island home, there were wars. Marauders. Fire. I pleaded with you as our city lay in ruins.

“Madame, it is not safe.  We must go,” I said. How many times did I plead with you?

And yet you were still, sitting there with only your lips moving in silent prayer.

At last, only we two were left.

Sometimes, I wonder, gazing out across the distance, if somehow you are still there, praying for us, for our souls – and if so oh, mon cherie, for how long?