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.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 6:22 AM UTC
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.
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