The Hairy Monk

(Curitiba Brasil)

The Hairy Monk

Outside this window a hairy monk in his brown robes
strides through the vegetable patch, swishing,
as monks tend to do; a blue over-frock,
a blue bottle of something Holy in his hand,
enters the chicken coop, blessing, sprinkling,
saying monk things to the quiet flock;

reappears to circle the greens
shaking the bottle like vinaigrette,
hopscotches the terracotta path
followed by Mr and Mrs Jeans,
who postponed this afternoon's siesta
to pray over their silver Ford Fiesta.

He shakes his Holy thing around
door frames, along the driveway,
lingers by the entrance to their abode,
and they disappear inside for cups of herbal tea.

Will the hens sing songs tomorrow?
One can only wait and see.

*

Three months under the kosh 

of hierarchy’s accident,

Lockdown, 

the snakes in the grass and adders climbing 

ladders, the Hairy Monk no match

for the noise of Corp and Coop, looped

his swing rope, frankincense licence lit

around doorways frames, not blind

to the ticking Ford Fiesta revving

dust songs on the driveway – screams

of oyster and lobster exploding

thermitic pulchritudinous muck

soft morphing the petrichor of herds

moving speckled beach towels,

and the monk doesn’t budge.

The colours of a pearl siesta, rainbow

salt in his eye, a soft pollen mote

journeying to the heart.