Most of the sisters who liked to sit and chat on these benches were ladies of wealthier backgrounds. Born to lead, as it were, and with a nice fortune. It helps one's self-esteem greatly.

We, we are the silent majority, in all these ages of ages. We are the beguines you think of when the word beguine comes to mind. We lace, we sew and mend. We stitch decorative threads on the robes of rich women from the city centre or far beyond. We wash shirts, sheets and bandages from the infirmary, and spread all those textiles here on the field, to get bleached.

Only men's clothes we are not allowed to wash, never, ever.

We serve as maids for our sisters who are more affluent. We keep the church tidy. We step on the bellows, the lungs of the organ. We mop the tiles until the light itself slips on them.

Every week we get six eggs. Three times a week we are allowed a portion of meat, except during Lent, when there is fish on Sundays. On Epiphany we are allowed to bring butter waffles to the table, and sometimes doughnuts, on Shrove Tuesday for instance. Then we stuff ourselves, to have some reserve.

We whitewash the walls of our houses and those of our sisters who consider themselves too good for such rough work.

We are the invisible hands that always fix something. Here in the bleaching meadow, we dip our fists in lye and knead linen like bread. We shove sheet-white dough into the ovens of our stoves.

We don't have much time to lounge around. We rarely come out. We hear the ships on the Scheldt and look up to see what season is lingering in the treetops. 

Until the church bell calls us for prayer. All day long, the dial round.

Working and attending, we call it. Work and church. 

Daffodils now bloom where we laid our sheets to rest.