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.
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