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.
