Trudging the path between the yew trees,
Those harbingers of death and sorrow,
Monks’ bare feet crush the dross of berries,
Poisonous, red froth between their toes.
Psittacism of holy mantras
Below the prickle of green branches
Drowns out the twittering of sparrows,
The songs of blackbird, thrush and finches.
The dull clapper of the chapel bell
Summons them inward at end of day,
When melodic voices pour and swell
From respectful prayer to joyous praise.
Kim M. Russell, 2017
My response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle #138 “January 16th, 2016”