Hermits by Gwyneth Lewis

I know I could be really good
if I had a private loch and bog
away from the other hermits' cells.
Colman and his bloody bells

disrupt my praying. Ican see
his candles burn across the bay
more hours than mine. It drives me wild,
so crowded are these blessed isles

with would-be saints who all deny
the flesh in more outrageous ways.
I want to be indifferent as stone.
I demand to be holy all on my own.



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