He sweeps the cloister,
the old monk,
with a wide broom,

shuffling, pushing.
I feel the morning breeze
hit me as I walk

from stairs to church
along the same cloister;
she had whispered

in my ears
****** suggestions
unfulfilled.

A cobweb hangs
in the church's
high gallery

like a thread
of a seamstresses' hair,
hanging there.