Eleven

The sound of the vacuum cleaner
Masks the sound of the footsteps

The sound of the footsteps
Masks the sound of the voice

The sound of the voice
Masks the sound of the busy mind

The sound of the busy mind
Masks the sound of silence

The sound of silence
Masks my own lack of awareness

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Ten

During prayers
I thought of my grandmother Elsie
I thought of my mother Eva

I thought of how
They might well have been Buddhists
If not for the Methodists of their time

Yes, they would be happy to help
They would be so so good house-mothers
Supportive, kind, offering love with guidance

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Nine

A lady enters the room
To make preparations for prayers
To be chanted in about half an hours time
I am invited to stay, I will stay for some

Although I might have to take a side seat
Not to be centre stage you understand
For I have neither the knowledge nor the voice
To create a pleasant experience for others

As I meditated I felt:
First a twinge in my shoulder
Then a twitch in my calf
Then a dull ache in my lower back

Let no one accuse me of being unaware
My awareness is firmly held
Yet it is arguably well assisted
By the silence behind closed eyes

A silence undone by footsteps
A silence undone by voices
A silence I once so treasured
Unaware of the harm it caused

A silence undone by vacuum cleaners
A silence undone by a busy mind
A silence beyond my awareness
Oh silence, what trouble you’ve caused

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Eight

I am in the second meditation room
I think they call it the protector
Which I take to mean
That it keeps evil spirits from the main room

The flowers are silk
Which is a disappointment
Though the water is real
As are the offerings of Bergamot and Coffee

Actually, the protector is there
To ensure that I am not prevented
From reaching my spiritual realisations
Why, how I thank you for that

I take a few minutes out
For a breathing meditation
I breathe in, I breathe out
Exactly as the instruction card says

But I also think to myself
Of what photographs I could have taken
To accompany the words
To justify the words

The ploughed field
The partridge, or pheasant
The tree line on top of the hill
The orange-tint, on the distant tree

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Seven

I take a drive out to Millington
I assume it is on the Yorkshire Wolds
A pheasant struts across the road
From stubble field to ploughed field
He puffs out his chest
Shakes his feathers
Vainglorious, that is
Until the shooting season
He scuttles away
As the muck-shift lorry races by
Then settles, to turn his green head
This way, then that
The day began so bright
Indeed I think I said so
In my morning words
But now the raindrops fall
The wind picks up
Ruffles the many coloured feathers
It is time to move on
The orange-tinted distant tree
Has lost its sunlit sparkle
As a country boy
I ought to know its name
But I don’t, no, I don’t
This was a short excursion
A place to find no place at all
But a chance for the iPad
To recharge its battery
Such that later on
I might type up these spurious notes
Of the day's proceedings
Pheasant, partridge, or otherwise

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