The squat,
Yorkshire monk,
pulls on the rope
and tolls

the Angelus bell;
his smooth hands
allow
the rough rope

to rub against
his skin,
rough on smooth.
I flushed the latrines

of the abbey,
having cleaned
with a stiff brush;
I recall her

mouthing my fellow;
her dark eyes
closing
as a dying moon.

The old French monk
scythes the tall grass,
his cutting swoop wide,
a studied look,

a prayer moaned
inside.