Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Findhorn
The dust of previous occupancy
Smothers any possibility
Of individual reckoning
Like a swathe of blankets
Thick in felt and embroidery
The weight of others is overbearing
Yet this place
Names itself
The centre for community
I wonder
Why then do I feel so estranged -
I determine to retreat to the pebble beach
Take solace with the solitary fisherman
Cast my cares to the clouds
Throw my woes on the rolling sea
The talk turns
To Finnish lodges
In the heart of the forest
A place to sauna
& swim
Au naturel
This sounds
More like
An engagement with life to me
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