Hermit Practice

these hours alone, contemplating

life, and all that it is and isn’t

giving; the small chores, the silences

the singing; small prayers

as if my will is all that keeps you

going in your daily dealings

with the world

 

I read

 

that monk-sailors in skin curraghs

fled human evil (the days scarcely

after King Arthur), the world already too

full; sailing through whales and ice floes

to build huts like beehives, stone

cold and full of other languages:

patience, poverty, toil

 

I just finished reading and am still processing Tim Severin’s book The Brendan Voyage.