Sixty Four

I have many traces of memories
Yet also I find new places
This afternoon I sit on a white chair
Under the apple tree
Behind me, a little way away
There are the beehives
I can hear the bees
I can see a butterfly
I can touch the peeling bark
On the trunk of the tree

Today there are no cobwebs
No silences in the corners
There is dust, as always
Though this is the dust
Of a dry dry summer
There are marker posts
With warning tapes
Highlighting a space
Which I ought not to enter
I will not go there

For I no longer wish to trespass
Now I only want to go
I only want to go where I am wanted
I only want to go where I am loved

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Sixty Three

Mindfulness does not necessarily
Mean slow
Indeed I myself much prefer
The pacy, racy, laced up way of carrying on

A bit like that time of dusk
Being shown the evening primroses open
Or around dawn
Witnessing the last bedroom door close

Or here, in the common room
Where I watch over the comings, the goings
The tall young woman
With a most expressive walker’s bottom

The new recruit with large leather bag
Who takes diminutive steps
With just those few words
I feel a comedy routine rushing in

Lots, yes, lots of double entendres
Amplified by relentless repetitions
Even perhaps a smidge of misunderstanding
For our overseas guests

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Sixty Two

Maybe there is no sitting
Or perhaps
The location has been changed
Without my knowing
Either way I will sit
I always have that within me

No need to search out others
Nor to feel discarded
But first
A few words to be written
On the beauty
Of the whole process

I came outside
Into this garden
To write of all
That I could feel
Or sense
Or touch

I did not expect
To hear your whistle
But then again
Occasionally
My expectations
Are not so high

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Sixty One

I came to sit
For sitting is what I do best
I came to nourish the wholesome seeds
Without fear of disturbance

I left you to go on your walk
Wherever that particular path
Chose to guide you
That magic place which it chose to take you to

I sit here with my writing
For, next to love, it is my next best thing
I write to discard the unwholesome seeds
Without the ache of repatriation

I hope to be hopeful
Hopefully here
Hopefully now
Hopefully I can make it

Even to be there
Wherever
Whenever
Hope is needed

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Sixty

But back at Emerson
From now on will mean
The scorched grasses

The open greenhouses
The storyteller’s building
Vacant throughout this summer

A sense somehow of love
Also of decay
That exact same sense of love

Also of decay
Found in among I
I who is that same person

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