This morning when walking into a rustic landscape
that had been tilled for many generations
yet was not manicured into regimented squares
as seen when flying over Holland.
By the slope brother fear,
dressed in a monks habit,
stood waiting his lipless grin sarcastic as always.

Put my hands on his bony brittle shoulders
turned him towards the hill and said:
“You first.”
As he began walking
I stabbed him cruelly
and saw him fade into triviality,
unimportant as a phosphorous match stick to a non smoker,
walked up the skew and breathed easily.