Francis sits down at the bench and begins his meal.
The other monks eat without thought other than
What the reading monk on his high stool reads out.
Some book on Cromwell, halfway through, the reader’s
Tone dry and at an even pace. Francis reflects on the
Preparation of the meal. The gathering of vegetables
From the garden, the preparing of the meat, the soup,
The dessert and all with little help save what Brother
Benedict brought with time and skill. Francis studies
Each monk in turn, his eyes sweeping the refectory,
The way this one holds his fork, that one shovels in
Without thought or care, another picking through his
Meal like some old hobo through a garbage heap.
The reader pauses to sip water. The sound of cutlery
On plates, the birds outside the tall windows of the
Refectory in song, the odd slurp or cough, a sneeze.
The reader reads on, Cromwell brought to life, his
Deeds both good and bad, high and low. Francis brings
His spoon to his lips, sips the soup, thick and dark.
One of the young monks pushing round the trolley
With meals for the next course, stops and stares at
The crucifix on the wall above the abbot’s head,
Thinks on the Last Supper with the sipping of blood
And wine and the breaking of both body and bread.