There are roses

There are roses
There are white butterflies
You tell me of your mother’s wistfulness
For her own mother

The decking is my Saturday morning shelter
As I listen to Test Match Special
Transmitted live from Headingley
As the new kid on the block strikes

This is summer; but what of autumn
Or those fine sharp days of winter
Will I need a fire bowl
To provide additional warmth

I saw such a device
On my friend Peter’s outdoor staging
Where I sat on his Adirondack chair’s
To write my notes of shelters of the future

Turn around the sun umbrella
For this is the best of summer
The pond fountain splashes
A frog has found his shelter

While the squirrel scuttles
Along the top of the fence
And the breeze
Rocks the canopy to and fro

There is ample time for contemplation
Even for imaginings of the meadow
Or the rocks, or the outliers
Of our northern isles

However, there is a reasonable degree
Of canvas instability
For this ever to be
Anything but a temporary shelter

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Today John O’Donohue reminds me

Today John O’Donohue reminds me
Of the shelter of presence
Which on reflection seems to be
A mighty fine shelter indeed

Yet for me this is not a divine presence
Neither, in any way a supernatural force
This is the energy of the I
This is the faces of the you

The presence of a we
Either apart or together
Which enables the transference
Of thought and love

In the present moment of presence
We are unlimited
We are open to all
We are boundless, as also is our joy

Then what better place for shelter
What neater place for being
Where we are free
To engage with our freedom

With the wonderful moment
Wrapped around us
We have memories
And also projections

Our gaze is both
Near and distant
Our protective shelters
Permit our unwavering

We may become vulnerable
We may feel deeply
Of all of our furthest desires
Which today may be limitless

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You lent me the word Conversation

You lent me the word Conversation
Which I would like to make more of
You sold me your House of Belonging
Which I would like to become my shelter

Your phrasing is familiar
I can hear you
As I read your words

The whole idea of one place
For one person
To invite many people

Yet, then
To be home for one person
Yes, that rather appeals to me

It offers itself up
As something I may once have had
As something I may have once again

Yet in this house already
There are many desks
Many places

For a quiet person
To write quietly
Or for an enraged person

To rant profusely
Or best of all
For one who is at peace to be peaceful

There are too many study books
On the peat herringbone Bowmore stool
Yet I am no intellectual

Nor do I have a strong deep memory
I forget the words
Almost as if I choose to discard them
In search of the more familiar shelters

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There is a lightness to this day

There is a lightness to this day
A lightness in which I think I could find shelter

It is not simply a lightness
From the light of day

Although that lightness
Is with me in abundance

But there is a lightness in mind and body
Which arose through meditation and writing

It is there, within me and for me
It is around me, it is above me

It is that very same shelter
For which I have long been searching

I needed to hear the words
I needed to expose belief

That is the belief in faith
Without any substantive reasons

Yet also to be told, thankfully
That there is more out there

But that we will always
Be further from what we know

Than we are
At this very moment

Or the very next moment
And so life will go on, ad infinitum

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Without the internet

Without the internet
I am encouraged
To be more prosperous and purposeful
To find a different kind of shelter

I am unable to tell the world
Of how I am feeling
Neither can I ask the souls of the world
What it is that they feel

Instead to tell the page
That the dream was repetitive
That it woke me at five
But then let me sleep again

Also to let the page know
That the sound of gulls
Always reminds me
Of days at the seaside

Yes, once I had a shelter
Within the iodine salted aroma
Of the sea or ocean
Where for a while time stood still

I was away from the world then also
Living, as they say
In the bubble
In the moment

And so I look to the leaves
Made to flicker by the breeze
I look at my neighbour's trees
And wonder if he is disconnected

I am not the hermit
Nor do I desire to be so
I have high hopes for conversation
Even for reconnection

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