Black robed,‭
the monk pauses‭
in the cloister-‭

prayer mode,‭
eyes glancing,‭
catches sight‭

of Red Admiral,‭
flower to flower,‭
wings a flap.‭

I mow the grass‭
by the church wall,‭
the motor running,‭

cut grass in flight,‭
sweaty brow,‭
wipe with thumb end‭

near palm.‭
The balding‭
peasant monk,‭

head to one side,‭
walks in the aisle‭
between choir stalls,‭

carrying the old broom‭
in his red white‭
knotted knuckled hand,‭

black robes‭
sweeping the floor‭
as he walks.‭

His high brows‭
are raised‭
like awaiting hawks.