cold air
bright blue sky
jagged rocks

biting mountain wind
green grass
small frozen lake

in an orange robe
a monk
his face full of character
like polished oak

he holds in one hand a broom
he gazes out across the ice
he considers a rock
there on the surface of the lake

bright flags flap on strings
a constant stream of prayers
fly away into the biting wind

deep brown eyes
watch dispassionately as
a traveller approaches

space age materials wrap her flesh
against the deep penetrating cold
coloured bindings wrapped in her hair
and about her wrists

the two,
monk and traveller
stand and consider
one and the other

she follows his gaze
to the stone on the ice
and she says

“is it a metaphor
for the brevity of life
our short existence In the light
before vanishing into the dark”

and he smiles
and contemplates his feet

“No” he replies after a while
“My friend in the next valley
and I have a bet
as to when it will sink
into the lake”

and he laughs the laugh of
one who is free to enjoy
the levity of life