The door opens; is opened

Always with a surprise

Always afraid

Of whatever is on the dark side

Inlaid, ingrained, only a slow release

Only daily therapy

Above and below the stairs

Your head rests

Beset with treasure

I hold your hand

No complicated words

Overheard

She whispers I love you

Comforted by her presence

Her perfume, her soft fabrics

Worn over even softer skin

Always I surmise

Always ably laid

To raise my love life

Waylaid, unstained, forever at peace

Laid back by the heresy

Love is aglow for what she cares

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A fine place for a picnic

What is that lady doing

Lying on the grass

By the stream

The stream that burbles and flows over the uneven unsteady rocks; stones that later she would sit upon, bare feet in the water, her picture being taken, photographed laid bare beneath the arched-back stone bridge.

How did she get there

What is her name

Who is she with

There with he who luxuriates and lays in the dappled sunlight, before a scramble up the hillside, to pick the just-on ripe bilberries, a thirst for the first of she the city country girl.

Where is she going

She called goodbye to the children

And waved

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Quietude

So quiet

Still

Too numb

Wait, think on, concentrate

The gum

Where the needle penetrated

A noise

An irritation

An awkward timed vibration

Still so

Quite peaceful

Only an overheard conversation

Only

Propellers in flight

The pain of past pleasure

Streams, rivers, rivulets

Churches, with corner stone creations

Still

So quiet

Lumber all the way up the hillside

Water

Racing all the way down the cut

Nowhere in a memory

Where anyone near has ever been still

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Japanese garden

A meditative moment

Overhead the quiet roar

Of a seven four…

1972 my first gathering

With the Maharishi

Today the Buddha Maitreya

In his book

The still lights

The beautiful visions

Uniqueness complete

In Surbiton

Without subordination

A yellow cover, a green page

Blue ink, unadorned font

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I miss her so

I lift the cup

Underneath

The arm of the plastic chair

A clumsy manoeuvre

In bare feet, without socks

Or safety nets

Levelled at  a scribble with no purpose

No point about how to feel

Or how to have felt

Deeper words to divide you the writer

But to share

With you the lover, the provider

Is it fair; in any which way

To be immortal

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