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Sunday, 9 June 2019

Dew

The dewdrops I notice
Sparkle in the grass
As the sunlight approaches my feet
I think to take off my shoes, my socks
To feel the morning on my body
In fact I do that right now

I walk, in bare feet, around the garden
First I feel the warmth, on my side
As I pass by the pampas grass
Then I realise that the ground is damp in parts
More so than in others
Where the shade has already lifted

I return towards the bench
Note the sunlight, dancing among the plum tree’s leaves
Which in turn
By the time I sit down again to write
Are casting their shadows of joy
Onto the pure white paper

The stone slabs, beneath my feet, are cold, stone cold
Yet the birds, in the apple trees, also beyond
They do not know this
For their airspace, their territory
Is already becoming warm
Their dew has today already lifted


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Saturday, 8 June 2019

Cass

It is the singing of the monks
Which reminds me today of your gracious space
For I am hundreds of miles away
On the journey to the horse racing at Goodwood

Meanwhile my partner swims in a lake
In the Carcassonne region of France
Also others, who I might wish to think about
Well they are more distant
Yes, in so many ways they are far more distant

So it is to your place which I return
To stand again in the breath of your silence
To engage, or to let go
During my morning meditation

As I ponder on visiting the sculpture gardens
Remembering that time, back in time
When the gates were locked, when all we could do
Was to imagine what might lay within
To contemplate on what might stand beyond

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Friday, 7 June 2019

Morning

Around the legs
Of the newly painted garden chair
Around the legs
Of the man, now in shorts again
After sixty years of long trousers

Around, through
The trees of the old orchard
Around, through (almost)
The ageing pampas grass
The recently planted silver birch

Over, above, also below
The aeroplanes, or helicopters
Over, above, also below
The few cotton-strands of clouds
The vast expanse of clear blue sky

In front of, yes, also behind
The face, the head of the meditator
In front of, yes, also behind
The curly locks of one who contemplates
The one who says many thanks, for the breeze

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Thursday, 6 June 2019

Happenstance in Heptonstall

Emptiness, said the Tibetan philosopher Tsong-Khan in 1397, is the track where the centred person moves. The word he uses for track is Shul. This term is defined as an impression: a mark that remains after that which made it has passed; by a footprint for example.
- Stephen Batchelor: Buddhism Without Beliefs

The surprisingly big stones, on the footpath at the top of the woods, have been hollowed out, the sandstone worn away by millions of mill workers feet, treading there, on their way to and from their place of work.
- Christopher Sanderson: Arvon, Lumb Bank, August 2018

Shul
In the wrong place
At the wrong time
With incomplete skills
And out of sorts motivation

Shul
Ineffective communicator
Inhibited, introverted personality
Of course others are better, others do better
Neither do others suffer, not as I suffer

Shul
Yes, of course the teachers have their favourites
Those who are so so often encouraged to glow
Meanwhile you rail against the establishment
Standing up for yourself, also for others

Shul
You take yourself off, into Mother Nature
Sit awhile, beside the stream
Photograph the effects of your predecessors
Say after me: I will not be beaten, I am who I am






















Happenstance in Heptonstall
Poems Started at Lumb Bank
Arvon 2018

Wednesday, 5 June 2019

Immigrant Song

Up against the course notes
A Smörgåsbord of inspirations
From writers, who, right now
I have to work hard to remember

Four days, five nights
Walks; uphill backwards walks
Hills too steep to catch one's breath
Too far from the ice cream shop

Now, back here in my home town
In the Pie & Mash Cafe
I have it all to myself today
Though you do have to book for weekends

The next ship may well sail
Without me on board
For, after this weekend
At Buckfast Abbey

I may well settle
For the quiet life
Though before I go
I do want to say

To all of the immigrants
In my country
Do you know
We too are lost, yes, we too
We are all pretty well lost






















Happenstance in Heptonstall
Poems Started at Lumb Bank
Arvon 2018