Seventy One

There is one hour
I may sit
I may write
There is one hour

There are roses on the trellis
I may look
I may see
There are roses on the trellis

There goes a Dharma teacher
I may wonder
I may wish
There goes a Dharma teacher

There is a group beneath the tree
I may sing
I may listen
There is a group beneath the tree

There is a friend
I may talk
I may laugh
There is a friend

There is a walk
I may wait
I may study
There is a walk

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Seventy

The beginning
Of the closing words
The bench in shade
The tree in light

Today the benches are empty
Yet I remember the poets
I recall Bridget’s The Planets poem
Recorded to a Pink Floyd backdrop

Also by happenstance to an aircraft landing
I remember the young woman
About to become a nun in a closed order
We smoked, we talked long into the night

I took her advice
As best I could
Also the teacher's guidance
Not to use the ing words

Though as you see
I broke that rule
On the very first line
So now I say thank you

To the Dharma teachers
Who told so much
Of impermanence, of the unknown
Of those otherwise outer worlds

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Sixty Nine

You hear big stories
Yet you do not have
A big story to tell

But then you are told
It will take too long
To write a love letter

So you write a love letter
Plus a birthday card
For good measure

You discover that perhaps
Your father played a hand
In your sense of humour

Sadly he is long long gone
As also is your mother, who
Without doubt gifted you her love

You listen to the bells
The church bells that is
From across the valley

Their rhythm becomes your rhythm
As also did the Tibetan bowl
Struck by its wooden thumper

It rings long for you, true for you
Day into night, night into day
Hear what I say, hear what you say

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Sixty Eight

I lean back on the old seat
Which sits on a small plot of land
Donated by Emerson College
Into a trust for the local community

I am reminded of the song
Houses, houses, houses
Which I think was more about the Downs
But which would also fit, right now, right here

In the middle of the woods
Halfway to the horizon
A thin plume of smoke rises
Perhaps a Papal visit

Though more likely I would say
It is coppice work, the sort of task
Which appears to be happily undertaken
To gift the artist his charcoal, also his fuel

I could write of nettles
Also of the ubiquitous Russian Vine
Or whatever it is known as
In this salubrious part of England

I do have to tell you
Of flies, of wasps
For they are cutting short
My easy contemplation

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Sixty Seven

I think it was the nun to be
Who showed me, for the first time
The opening, the closing
Of the Evening Primrose

Now, at breakfast
It is a red flower
Which takes my gaze; I don’t
Know it’s name, but I will take a photograph

Paul told me of this organic farm
In whose cafe I now sit
It is only ten minutes walk from college
But with big views, of fields, of woods

They serve huge slices
Of broccoli, leek, mushroom, and cheese tart
If they are Cornish Pasties
I may we’ll be back tomorrow

After the tart I take a slab
Of their chocolate brownie
Which I am pretty sure
Will be made with real milk

As will whatever else
These mighty fine Italian chefs do
To expertly turn out
Such delicacies

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