The monk, having seriously exercised his respect for Glasgow’s wine, distracted my queries regarding his life’s order.

The ankle–low lamps coasted straight and narrow paths, giving the weak evening mist a siren’s glamour.

A burglar alarm worried from chaotic directions; our movement let the monastery buildings dance the echoed panic.

In darkness brushed by nightfall’s husk, the monks chanted like drill–men ritually thanking the Minister of Transport.

My fresh eyes were captivated by their Sunday chore, a ritual with incense, a sparkle in Latin.