That monk in the refectory
sitting there
reminded me

of old Jack:
same look,
same eyes,

that quiet presence.
The French peasant monk,
cutting back

the hedgerow
with a scythe,
black robed,

tonsured,
humble as cheese,
nods and bows.

I picked apples wrong
in the orchard,
the monk said,

he showed how,
his fine fingers
twisted just so,

feminine,
pinkish nails,
his dark tight curls

untonsured.
For whom the bells toll
down to the sea and beach?

I tossed stones
across the incoming tide,
further

than Brother Hugh
(moaning Myrtle)
could reach.