Killing a hungover hour in the drizzle of an Old Town walking tour, the guide points out a chapel wall: 'Two monks sealed themselves in– could reach them with food on a long branch, pour water to their offered mouth.' A festival day, people pass by bearing flags; flame in lanterns glowing hearts through the rain. 'They took on Silence, the rhythm of days; moon disturbed their blood.' The rain and the mist from the rain ruin time. The procession dissolves in a flutter of jester rags, drowsy as butterflies, confusing the street with colour. 'They took on the seasons, dreamed longer to make themselves saints; it was warm in the cell in summer.' From the bar opposite, I keep vigil vaguely as another shot of balsam floods the vein, feeling there must be simpler ways; though I can almost see a sallow face in a spear of light, flap of cowl caught on gold grate. Published in 'Skylight 47'