The Monks

The river is high these early hours, 
a fine mist reminding us of the Ghost. 
Someone coughs inside a distant cell, 
someone chants matins, somewhere
a renegade brother brews beer.
Reports of plague illuminate our books,
while the sandstone walls weep 
like open wounds. Young friars 
play football amongst bean canes
and wild garlic, daydream of sun
on white fences, earthly mores. 

Read more on Allegro Poetry, December 2019

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