The French
peasant monk
pushed a wheel barrow

along by
the abbey church;
the squeaky wheels

echoing through
the nearby wood
and throughout

the silent cloister;
his tonsured head
lowered,

back bent,
prayers simple
maybe said.

I tended
the dying monk,
aged and fragile

as an ancient script
of yesteryear;
I recalled how

she tongued me
along
my inner thighs,

bringing tears of joy
into my hazel eyes.
Dom Gregory prepared

the altar for mass,
laying the altar cloth,
preparing the priest monk's

robes and gowns,
making sure
the candles were ready;

his footfalls
like echoes  
on a deep deep sea.