We hobbled over
Those nobbled
Cobbled stones
As the white water
Pitched, bobbled
In the middle
Of the stream
He sits on a rock
Posing, to have
His photograph taken
The water
Makes quite a racket
Nowhere near as quiet
As the mouse
In the Tibetan meditation room
Either way
Even with such
Never-ending movement
There is a stillness
To the moment, to the day
No need now for wobble
Or for feeling wobbly
Cobbled together stories
Of past lives, present lives
All of what there is, going forwards
