Something of the medieval monk
Lies among these deep devout drifts
Snugged around the awakening city
Wholly dedicated to sacred silence
Illuminating his manuscript hour upon hour
Removed from the uproar of the world
Tongue tucked thoughtfully in his mouth
As he delicately depicts dragons
On the corners of the Earth
While far away rage armies and despots
Intent on their dull noisy business
Of death and desperate destruction
Of art, beauty, history, sanity, hope
The monk is heedless of it all
With his tucked tongue and exacting hand
Like McCartney’s Father McKenzie
Darning his socks in the night
When there’s nobody there
Pausing only to join his fellow solitaries
For the daily office rounds
Matins, lauds, prime, terce
Sext, none, vespers, compline
Only breaking the deep shroud of silence
To intone ancient melancholy Psalms
So does the snow lie all about me
Deep, silent, devout, shrouded
As yet unsullied by blackening exhaust
The exhausting noise of the world
On this silent sacred morning