The Irish monk
reads from a life
of a saint-

refectory lunch-

his eyes walk
the page-

silence as he reads
from others-

eating as a work
of art.

I look at the monks
around me-

one with a patch
over one eye
like a pirate-

and a memory
of her licking
my ear
and whispering words.

The French peasant monk
brings water
for the flowers
in the church
and he labours
as a whole millennium
of peasant monks
have done –

he being solitary
but not the only one.