Climber

A black and white light
A black and white meditation
After reading of death
After reading of Doors for the Dead

A new light
With the singing of starlings
A fresh air
With the window flung wide open

She came here as a five year old
Thirty-eight years ago
Her parents were school teachers
Her father was a Buddhist

They came here in the school holidays
She remembers some of the gardens
Some of the hidden pathways
Although she feels

With some nostalgic sadness
Coupled-up to modern joy
That the inside of the house
Has changed beyond measure

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Advice

There is a call for peace
And whilst it does not disturb me
It leaves me somewhat fearful
Of losing my own voice
There is a way of concentration
That makes me forgetful
That I don't aim to forget
There is a propaganda
Of fake beauty and glitter
That doesn't quite
Take my breath away
There is also the first letter
Of the word I had forgotten
And then the woman sits down
The one I had who forgotten
To even ask her name
Although I retold her story

There is a seat in the woods
I think it is there to signify
The end of the non-circular
Lakeside walk
Yet the path does continue
To where I do not venture
Instead I came to the temple
But the temple was busy
I found a dry-stone wall
Which one day I might copy

As I stroked the stone
A Buddhist introduced himself
He asked if I was a builder
He told me he used to be
The abbey's electrician
But the work was overwhelming
I told him of the busyness of the temple
He showed me to this quiet gazebo
From where I write to you right now

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Walking Up The Lane, Deep In Conversation

I could tell you of the birdsong
For it has been with me since dawn

I could tell you
Of the still-pond by the woods
Settled all day
Covered with the shadows
Of the overhanging branches

Of course the shadows move
Just as the day moves
Just as those young boys
Won't remember their games of tennis
When the young girls come along
Asking them to dance

We could have told you
The names of the birds
For once we did know them all
Skylark, swallow, thrush
We knew all of the birds
In the sky, in the trees, in the bush

We would have told you
Of our plans to dig out the pond
To create a dam in the stream
Blockading the water
Until it is deep enough to swim in
Rather than catch sticklebacks

Of course the old folk, walking by
They have more memories
They show us how to take time
How to relive memories, how to celebrate
Past and the present; just as two lovers
Caught up in the act of procreation

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Sensation

Buttercups and bluebells
Shellfish for the supper
Nature walks and evening poets
Soup, with rolls strong on garlic

Old woodlands of nature's love
Absent in the ever after
After the split, the split
Mackerel, heavily peppered

Fresh waters, silted waters
Soil from high on the Pennines
One range, your range
Fish & chips, down in the valley

Talk no more of late laments
Those fragments cold as ice
Sliced into the wild mirrors
Oysters, doused with sea salt

Secluded in exclusive apartments
Turn up the stereo
Fine tune the meditation
Lemon rice, sprinkled with jasmine

I say goodbye, I say goodbye so often
In the warm, mid-June afternoon
Writing, under canvas in the forest
Sipping champagne, savouring the caviar

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Manjushri Beach, June 2015

You have to be in a place
Before you can know
That you are in that place

Be in that place
That place be in

You have to begin in one place
To move on to the next place
Even in your imagination

Begin in that place
That place to begin

For instance
On this sunny afternoon
To go from Ben Nevis to Donna Nook

One mindful swoop
No waste in between

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