Little monk

‘There’s a little monk under that tree’ said the Silverback ‘I’ve never seen him before!’

We were sitting outside the Baked Poetry Cafe in the village. Black coffee for the old fella, peppermint tea for the Sparrow. I particularly like that cafe because they put a tiny shortbread biscuit on the saucer, which often falls my way.

Of course the monks been there forever. I mean, just look at him, he’s nearly the same colour as the tree. He’s so Zen he’s become one with the space around him. I think they call it self-actualisation, but don’t quote me on that.