And whilst it does not disturb me
It leaves me somewhat fearful
Of losing my own voice
There is a way of concentration
That makes me forgetful
That I don't aim to forget
There is a propaganda
Of fake beauty and glitter
That doesn't quite
Take my breath away
There is also the first letter
Of the word I had forgotten
And then the woman sits down
The one I had who forgotten
To even ask her name
Although I retold her story
There is a seat in the woods
I think it is there to signify
The end of the non-circular
Lakeside walk
Yet the path does continue
To where I do not venture
Instead I came to the temple
But the temple was busy
I found a dry-stone wall
Which one day I might copy
As I stroked the stone
A Buddhist introduced himself
He asked if I was a builder
He told me he used to be
The abbey's electrician
But the work was overwhelming
I told him of the busyness of the temple
He showed me to this quiet gazebo
From where I write to you right now
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