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Stephen Chinnock

4 April 2020

After a blustering day
The wind has died down
Leaving an eerie quiet
On the night
Of my seclusion

Were I a monk
With a shaved head
Sitting in a sparsely
Furnished cell
I’d gather my cape
Around my shoulders
Singing and praying
To the lord
For all my blessings

But I’m not that monk
In his highly isolated monastery
I’m here in beautiful Mollymook
Not a priest to be seen
More likely the police
Patrolling the distance
Between us all

So I’m left here
In my own kind of cell
Albeit comfortably furnished
And well supplied
With vitals
Well beyond the meagre diet
Of my now friend, the monk

What’s missing is
I cannot touch the faces
Of those I love
Can’t offer an embrace
Of acceptance
And reassurance
Should I take to songs of praise
Prayers to heaven above

Or just sit here wondering
About the fate of humanity
Drinking wine
And scribbling on
Hoping to find a better connection
To reality
Than the monk
On the mountain!

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