Eighty One

A footpath
Of cobbled stone
With granite slate
All maintained
By the National Trust

The camera says
It’s had enough
So these here words
Will have to suffice
To describe the view

Bums on boulders
Feet on ferns
Sandwiches
In the plastic bag
(Biodegradable)

The gill
For that is why
We have ventured off-road
It is as white as sour milk
Hence the name

Across the way
Higher, then higher still
Up there on the summit
Matchstick Men
In the style of LS Lowrie

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Eighty

Take your time
Follow
The mindful way of life

Take your time
Glide through the hollow
Covered by the trees of life

Stand in line
Borrow
From the mindful way of life

Stand in line
Free from sorrow
Gifted by the stillness of life

Find the sign
Climb
Into the mindful way of life

Find the sign
Peaceful for the mind
Beauty in the love of life

Turn to kind
Learn to unwind
With the mindful way of life

Turn to kind
Seek to find
Care in a carefree kind of life

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Seventy Nine

Who was there
Who wasn’t there
Was everybody there
Was I the only one absent

The window was open
Throughout the night
I needed fresh air
I wanted fresh air

No matter
That your shoulder
Might have caught the draught
Causing you a relapse

The autumn colours
Already beautiful
Yet, so we are told
Better still in two weeks time

Then to walk
On the decking
Over the bog, over the marsh
To see the magnificent grasses

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Seventy Eight

One word a page
One word a day
Beginning with love
Going who knows which way

Silent meditation
In a silent hall
Silent meditation
Going wherever to call

Climbing hills
With morning footsteps
Climbing hills
Going to whatever’s next

A wandering person
Who wished me joy
A wandering person
Going on to become the boy

In mind, in body
Here on retreat
In mind, in body
Going on to the steadier seat

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Seventy Seven

A Quaker Hotel
On radio interview day
His accent so swell
Talking of play

His girlfriend asleep
On the back of the bike
Nude swimmers in deep
With his karma to strike

Thunder, lightning
Then missing the boat
The snow was whitening
His car sliding, as if afloat

Jack Simmons bowled him out
In no time at all
So he went ride-about
From the ferry, to Donegal

I tell of that night
Midnight on the M62
What a magnificent snow sight
My story, also told for you

Wagons, then cars
Opening the blockade
Policemen under the stars
Watch the free-thinkers on parade

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Seventy Six

Some things I know
Some things I don’t
Some things I’ll do
Some things I won’t

I breathe in
Into the present moment
I breathe out
All of my distractions

Some paths I’ll walk
Straight and true
Along the ridges
Where nothing’s new

I breathe myself in
Into the present moment
I breathe myself out
Out with all my distractions

Some words I hear
Clear, thin
Spreading the message
Drawing me in

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Seventy Five

He lies beneath the tree
His crutches leant against
His mobility scooter
He has told me his story
Or a small part of it
Which resonates

His knees are raised
Perhaps this is a more
Comfortable position
He is in the shade
Which maybe also helps

Does he contemplate
On death
Does he meditate
On life
Is his despair
A thing I have never known

He is a musician
That is
I know he plays guitar
He smiles, he laughs
He makes me
Smile, and laugh

He has a spirit
Which is infectious
He has a story
Which he dared to tell

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Seventy Four

There is geometry
In the trellis
There is repetition
Along the front of the house

Roses, a robin
I have nothing to offer
I have no gifts to give
Repetition is at the front of my mind

Old branches; bent, disfigured
I am no gardener
I am no tree surgeon
Repetition is all I know

Hot coffee, without sugar
I did not train as a Barista
I did not warm the cup before
Repetition, oh how I need to find you

White flower, slowly opens
I am not always so so observant
I am not always so so well seeing
Repetition may you be with me, may you

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Seventy Three

So I smile
As I let you rise
So I laugh
As I let you fall

So with hope
I let you rise
So with grace
I let you fall

So with no struggle
You rise
So with no regret
You fall

So with little doubt
Rise
So with little fear
Fall

So
So
So
So

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Seventy Two

These are the evening primroses
Which I saw open for the first time

The wall
The bench
The poets
The dusk
The evening primroses

This is the emblem of one life of survival
Such a gift, such a place

The blue sky
The thirty degrees
The birdsong
The high noon
The evening primroses

That such certainty should emerge
From such uncertain, troubled times

The mind
The body
The heart
The soul
The evening primroses

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Seventy One

There is one hour
I may sit
I may write
There is one hour

There are roses on the trellis
I may look
I may see
There are roses on the trellis

There goes a Dharma teacher
I may wonder
I may wish
There goes a Dharma teacher

There is a group beneath the tree
I may sing
I may listen
There is a group beneath the tree

There is a friend
I may talk
I may laugh
There is a friend

There is a walk
I may wait
I may study
There is a walk

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Seventy

The beginning
Of the closing words
The bench in shade
The tree in light

Today the benches are empty
Yet I remember the poets
I recall Bridget’s The Planets poem
Recorded to a Pink Floyd backdrop

Also by happenstance to an aircraft landing
I remember the young woman
About to become a nun in a closed order
We smoked, we talked long into the night

I took her advice
As best I could
Also the teacher's guidance
Not to use the ing words

Though as you see
I broke that rule
On the very first line
So now I say thank you

To the Dharma teachers
Who told so much
Of impermanence, of the unknown
Of those otherwise outer worlds

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Sixty Nine

You hear big stories
Yet you do not have
A big story to tell

But then you are told
It will take too long
To write a love letter

So you write a love letter
Plus a birthday card
For good measure

You discover that perhaps
Your father played a hand
In your sense of humour

Sadly he is long long gone
As also is your mother, who
Without doubt gifted you her love

You listen to the bells
The church bells that is
From across the valley

Their rhythm becomes your rhythm
As also did the Tibetan bowl
Struck by its wooden thumper

It rings long for you, true for you
Day into night, night into day
Hear what I say, hear what you say

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Sixty Eight

I lean back on the old seat
Which sits on a small plot of land
Donated by Emerson College
Into a trust for the local community

I am reminded of the song
Houses, houses, houses
Which I think was more about the Downs
But which would also fit, right now, right here

In the middle of the woods
Halfway to the horizon
A thin plume of smoke rises
Perhaps a Papal visit

Though more likely I would say
It is coppice work, the sort of task
Which appears to be happily undertaken
To gift the artist his charcoal, also his fuel

I could write of nettles
Also of the ubiquitous Russian Vine
Or whatever it is known as
In this salubrious part of England

I do have to tell you
Of flies, of wasps
For they are cutting short
My easy contemplation

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