Birdcage Of The Soul

At the very least it ought to be a reflective letter
A piece to look back a good distance, looking back
From the safe vantage point of lost communication

I have been taken by the vistas
On several occasions the multifarious hillocks
Would catch the evidently varying light

The machair, for that is these Islanders name
For the strip of land between dune and farm
Or between dune and croft

The machair would be lit as a line
To underline the horizon
That separates sea from sky

I expected to feel more touched
By the expanse of solitude
It has not been so

Not that one could say
That the Islanders revel
In parties or conversation

Perhaps they need a long breath of finer weather
& clearer skies, but they have not yet borne
Their dark weight upon me

I have this desire, an urge to open out my life
To take full advantage of all the beauty
You included, that has so far befallen me

This journey
Into and through my subconscious
To be chartered by my superficial soul

The writer, the voice
Though no singer, I do aim to carry songs
As would the reader, to and fro

From the birdcage of my soul
To steal the words
Of one song from everybody’s past

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Delayed

Darkness calls around
Slight chill of autumn
Light whistle of wind
Up the fireless chimney

All the sounds of intern
On the backlit keyboard
A thankfulness blows
As if love called my name

I shape up to see the trees
Silhouettes in feint relief
The thief of another summer
My timeless breath fades

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Tongue & Groove

Sunlit Doors

Hasps, rasps, nobbles

Key locked & slide bolted

I sit on the step, half in shadow, half in light

The doors not insignificant security

Leaves me fairly well protected

It is a barrier from the onrush of parishioners

Those spirited attendees of a service

That would be difficult for me to attend

As I enter the chapel later all is quiet

It is clear of worshipers and tourists alike

I stand ever so still, to feel the magnificent privilege

Swim with venom into my veins

Run rampant throughout my hopeful mind

Give my soul these free words to rampage with

I am heavy in admiration of mortice and tenon

The carpenters surely fashioned this boldness

Making a statement, as carpenters sons are known to

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Before We Go To Emptiness

This morning I am extremely sensually aroused
In a sexually aroused kind of way
I did have an erotically charged dream
Yet some three hours later
The passions are still climbing
The sap is still rising

Is this a reaction
To the nuns and the monks
Who we met at the weekend
Have I a mind
To counterbalance their abstinence

Or is this a stiff test
A delusion or a distraction
(A pretty strong one, I'll give you that)
A means to prevent my meditation
One more hurdle for me to sidle over
On the road to peace

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Procedures and Artefacts

I came into town to collect my prescription from the chemists. Kate said to ask if they do home deliveries, so I did ask; and the lady said yes we do, but only for the housebound. She did not say, but I think that clearly she thought, I did not meet that criteria.

I brought my old black leather shoes with me, to take them to the cobbler for new soles and heels (steel tipped). I find out that he does not open Monday's and Thursday's, today is Monday. I need then not have worried, as I did all the way, as to whether or not he takes cash or card for payment.

I was rather taken by the glass fronted sideboard at Madhyamaka. I fancied having a reflection in our old stables so that meditators could look back, through the new window behind them into the garden, much as I had done to watch the gulls soaring. The antiques centre had no such thing, and they didn't appear to know if they were going to be expecting one.

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