she keeps trout
in a fish trap
in the stream
that licks her house.
he sharpens his knives
in the shop, whistling hymns
and dreaming of saturday
venison. roasted.
the monks are black
the flowers red
the spire spies
them all.
-dead eight hundred
years behind
the wall and the river
where a hover
of trout linger, hungry as ever
the smith and his wife were
on a friday in the shadow
of the Münster's tower.
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