Monks, Tourists, Tourists, and Monks

(Cistercians, to be precise, in full magpie rig,
white robes, black cowls, unabashed, convinced smiles).
The beach is wide and sunny ("best on the Island,
But freezing cold," the guide says). And empty, too.
The shop sells postcards, saints' medals, the perfume
That's an unexpected island specialty. The lighthouse view
Stretches well past the horizon &endash; worth the long uphill hike.
On the pathway, one brother (Father Richard, I'm told later),
With staff and breviary, welcomes me &endash; "A fine day."
(Aren't they sworn to silence?) But I wonder &endash;
Does he pray for rains and rough seas,
To preserve his meditative quiet ? "Oh, no,
The shopkeeper rebuts. "We get quite our fill
Of isolation, especially in deep winter."

John Hildebidle