The young monks
pick fruit from bushes
their tonsured heads
and bent backs
offered to
the afternoon sun.

I mowed the grass
by the monks cemetery
with the old petrol mower
ploughing through
the molehills
scattering earth
in all directions.

I recall her saying
kiss me here
and I had
and felt glad.

George,
the novice monk,
laughs softly
into the huge napkin
at lunch
in the refectory,
large a bedsheets,
he said.

I liked the shaking
of his tonsured head.