Inexplicable Lightness Of Being

Bird, you came to that branch yesterday
In those calm times
Before the Siberian winds ventured forth

How far is your journey
Why would you choose to be here in winter
Does someone nearby feed you

And why that tree
Which is itself without shelter
Why not find one offering a degree of respite

Bird, where have you gone to
In this turbulent time
This is all the weather that the East has to offer

How far is your return
Why would you even have been here
Does someone nearby care for you

And why that tree
Which is in another’s garden
Why not find one of your own

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Quiet Snow

I am but free
That is the standing me
I am but made of soul

I am but free
That is the sitting me
I am but made of all

And in this way
The thoughtful me
Finds another line

And in this way
The careful me
Follows a simple sign

I watch the water droplets
Suspended on the twig
I thus watch the life

I watch the twig
Unsettled by the breeze
I thus sense the strife

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Quiet Snow; Ocean Laughter

As the snow falls
A quiet also falls
Before the coldness
Before the oldness creeps in

As the bird flies
The branch wavers
Meanwhile the rooftop
Meanwhile the rooftop awaits

If it was
If it was Siberia
Why would we not
Why would we not stay indoors

If I was
If I was here alone
Yes, really here
Really here being

I would hear the wave-sounds
I would also hear the birdsong
Before I heard the Ocean
Before I heard the laughter

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Portrait, Top To Bottom

Blue sky
Grey clouds
At forty-five degrees
A pitched roof
Front face on
It is the Pack Horse
A Public House
Whose name appears
In large gold letters
It has Georgian windows
Two sets, two levels
Each with eight frames
Of long uncleaned glass
And a decked out verandah
With wooden handrail
Benches, tables, chairs
A place for outdoor drinking
And socialising
Though not in today’s snow
There is a tall gate
Into the aforesaid tavern
Which may be approached
By a cobbled street
Past the Public Library
All of this can be seen
Stood on the pavement
In front of the Post Office

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A 635

Snow today
But only a few
Wispy blustery affairs
Yet sufficient

To remind me
Of that day
On the road over the Pennines
From Greenfield to Holmfirth

Ostensibly the road was closed
But being young, foolish
And filled with bravado
I passed the road closed sign

Thinking
If I can get up the hill
Then it’s flat, or downhill
The rest of the way

And if I can’t get up the hill
I will turn around
Then it will be downhill
As I come back

Surely you see my logic

On the so called easy bit
That is the flat bit
The road was
Only a car widths wide

With twelve feet tall
Drifts of snow
To either side
No room here then

For turn around manoeuvres
To go forwards
Or to reverse
They were the only options

Pure white snow
Clean white snow
Virgin white snow
Yes, virgin territory

For the brave one
Slowly becoming terrified
By the abandoned
Snow virgins

Time moves on
Time moves on slowly
With only a single colour
To keep one company

With a singular concentration
To focus upon
Keep going, keep going, keep going
Keep those wide wheels turning

On no account pause, or stop
But watch the temperature gauge
Keep an eye on the fuel level
And the tyre pressure

No way today
To call in the AA
Today is before
The mobile phone was invented

Yet this is the solitude
Which you dreamt of
This is you
You alone with nature

Yes, this is the silence
The silence you dreamt of
This is you
You alone with the snow

Absolutely, this is the heaven
The heaven you dreamt of
This is you
You alone with the light

But is this the end
The end you never did dream of
Is this you
You; fading, or emerging

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