CHORES TO BE DONE 1971.

I could have done

with a smoke
waiting in the cloister,
the refectory floor drying,
the sunlight playing
on the grass of the cloister garth,
a bell rope hanging
by the wall like a donkey's tail,
an open cell window
on the abbey wall,
a monk walked by
over the way,
his black gown flapping
as he walked along,
she kissed my inner thighs,
her damp lips touching,
leaving wet patches,
the French peasant monk,
head lowered,
carrying a bucket,
trod heavy
like work horse,
into the kitchen,
the clock tower
chimed a quarter,
she placed her hands
on my buttocks,
holding me in place,
I missed a good smoke,
needed a good drag,
an intake of tobacco smoke,
I returned to the refectory,
the floor was dry,

time to lay the tables

for one o' clock lunch,
fruit bowls, water jugs,
kiss me, she said,
kiss my lips into oblivion,
Dom Patrick was stirring
a pot on the stove,
the kitchen was steamed up,
he said nothing,
his eyes were dull,
his head tonsured,
he looked like
a Medieval figure
frozen in time,
I moved with the trolley
loaded with jugs
and bowls of fruit
into the refectory,
thinking of God,
prayers,
and her of course,
but that
was a different
sexier story.