The squat,
Yorkshire monk,
pulls on the rope
and tolls
the Angelus bell;
his smooth hands
allow
the rough rope
to rub against
his skin,
rough on smooth.
I flushed the latrines
of the abbey,
having cleaned
with a stiff brush;
I recall her
mouthing my fellow;
her dark eyes
closing
as a dying moon.
The old French monk
scythes the tall grass,
his cutting swoop wide,
a studied look,
a prayer moaned
inside.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC
The squat,
Yorkshire monk,
pulls on the rope
and tolls
the Angelus bell;
his smooth hands
allow
the rough rope
to rub against
his skin,
rough on smooth.
I flushed the latrines
of the abbey,
having cleaned
with a stiff brush;
I recall her
mouthing my fellow;
her dark eyes
closing
as a dying moon.
The old French monk
scythes the tall grass,
his cutting swoop wide,
a studied look,
a prayer moaned
inside.
MONKS AND A NOVICE IN AN ABBEY IN 1971.
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