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
©2002 mark williamson - all rights reserved