Two monks,
black robed,
picked fruit

in the abbey gardens,
tonsured,
crown of thorns.

I turned the pages
of the breviary,
Latin words,

red ended pages,
black cover,
heavy,

psalms,
prayers,
Gospel excerpts.

The old peasant monk,
smiled toothless at the camera,
a world away,

all things,
he said,
is to pray.