the cat always vanished as the man approached
hiding in the shadows as quiet as a mouse
the house fell silent, the walls became all ears,
leaning, straining forward, the better they may hear
the fear of his footsteps, coming closer now
i stayed very still, my expression was a mask
my thoughts were my own, untouchable, my home
a cat will vanish, i could only wait
confronted by this hatred
i escaped,
i had learned to levitate
In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The leaves of the winter wither and sink in the forest mould
To colour the flowers of April with purple and white and gold:
Light and scent and music die and are born again
In the heart of a grey-haired woman who wakes in a world of pain.
The hound, the fawn, and the hawk, and the doves that croon and coo,
We are all one woof of the weaving and the one warp threads us through,
One flying cloud on the shuttle that carries our hopes and fears
As it goes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
The green uncrumpling fern and the rustling dewdrenched rose
Pass with our hearts to the Silence where the wings of music close,
Pass and pass to the Timeless that never a moment mars,
Pass and pass to the Darkness that made the suns and stars.
Has the soul gone out in the Darkness? Is the dust sealed from sight?
Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages returns thro’ the warp of the night!
Never that shuttle loses one thread of our hopes and fears,
As it comes thro’ the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
O, woven in one wide Loom thro’ the throbbing weft of the whole,
One in spirit and flesh, one in body and soul,
Tho’ the leaf were alone in its falling, the bird in its hour to die,
The heart in its muffled anguish, the sea in its mournful cry,
One with the flower of a day, one with the withered moon
One with the granite mountains that melt into the noon
One with the dream that triumphs beyond the light of the spheres,
We come from the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
a loom stands in the corner
the work left incomplete
slippers beside the fire, grown cold
missing the warmth of her feet
this place is full of cobwebs and dust
a broom leans by the wall, forgotten
an emerald bowl holds trinkets, jumbled
does anyone live here at all?
the garden is wild and overgrown
the birds, left unfed, have all flown away
the pool by the fountain is empty and dry
where children used to play
the faeries who hid away in the rain
will return with the nightingale
In the centre of a forest
I find myself alone.
I am truly lost.
I look behind the way I came;
Broken branches, sodden leaves.
I crashed through there in dreams.
I hurt the wood.
I see no path ahead.
Night begins to fall,
no sky in view above. I stand transfixed,
the ground beneath my feet,
unstable now, green leaves above a pit.
I cannot move. No footprints lay ahead.
I can only wait, deserved and destined fate.
I ask the spirits of this forest
for a way to see the path.
I hear no answer, just the hollow echoes of my voice.
I will stand here in the night and wait
until an answer comes.
Darkness gathers round.
In the morning
when light returns
I’ll try to find a better path
and attempt to make amends.
We waited every summer for those luscious, wholesome pies
after blackberries were gathered by our noisy laughing gangs
we came home, sun-burned, fingers stained blue-black
with signs of juicy theft lined around our mouths.
Excitement filled our eyes, in the height of summer days.
Later on, the gang dispersed,
grown up or gone away,
and so I took my children then,
with baskets in their hands,
following the winding lanes
that climbed beside the cliffs.
Sun-drenched and slow we went,
seeking out the bilberries
huddled close to ground,
and plundering the hedgerows
competing with the birds.
Reaching home
the time had come.
My turn to make the pies.
I shared out the sweetness
into outstretched bowls
as I watched their sticky smiles.
Now I gather berries
quietly, alone.
I wander as I gather,
tasting as i go,
keeping all the best of them
to warm the winter wine.
The bird baths all are cracked
by winters biting frosts.
I heard the blackbirds song,
a memory of water,
fluid in the air.
It seemed a sad reflection
of a sorry state of health.
The coldest days were long.
Everything seemed lost.
The paths were overgrown
with plants all running wild,
strangling and tangling
the roses, overblown,
spoiled by slow neglect,
in a garden once so loved.
Summer brought destruction,
smothering, spreading, fast.
A time of choice had come,
to recover all its glory
or let it go at last.
I would not be daunted.
The days were flying past.
All had been so lovely
in lazy days before,
those days so softly haunted
with thoughts of gardeners gone.
In sad remembrance of them
I set about the work.
I cleared the well worn paths,
discovered them anew.
Where the brambles barred me
I tirelessly pushed through.
Putting down my tools
I turned to go inside
to take a well earned rest.
It was then I saw the gift.
The garden had been blessed.
In a place I would have chosen,
beside a golden rose,
a single seed had fallen
planted by a bird.
A sign of new beginnings.
changing with the seasons,
uplifting tender leaves
to a future that’s begun.
Now in this sheltered garden
there grows a graceful Birch.
The silver of the winter
reaches for the sun.
There’s no lasting thrill in luxury.
Luxury, of its nature, should be rare.
It’s hard to feel real pleasure
when everything you ever want
is instantly supplied and there.
The credit card, a chain around you neck.
will bind you into deep despair.
Be a worker not a slave.
Be kind, be vigilant.
Be true to who you are.
Be brave.
Don’t linger in the darker places
of a troubled mind
Turn your face toward the sun
Your journey here will make you wise
Give daily thanks that you’re alive
Use your heart, your brain and eyes
Enjoy each small surprise
that life decides to send your way.
Expect nothing, receive with pleasure,
little things that bring delight
delivered quietly every day
or in the sweetness of the night
Whatever life may bring to me
I am always glad of you
This perhaps you do not see,
You will always be my chosen ones.
Your light shines bright
You are my sons.
oh how moods swing up and down
first a smile and now a frown
like the weather, changing ever
sun and showers across the town
all my life it’s been the same
a sadness comes I cannot name
it matters not how i strive
a balanced mind i cannot claim
my heart beats on despite it all
with every breath that lifts and falls
but when i look with inner eye
a woodland clearing always calls
the glory that lies underneath
is clear to me in every leaf
in gratitude i clear my sight
and come to find a tranquil peace
all is lovely, gentle, light
the darkest day becomes more bright
in a prayer of thankfulness
my mind lifts up in joyful flight
the pyramids of greed and power
became our masters long ago
they took the land away from us
and fenced the common pastures
while we were tired and sleeping
are we sleeping still?
we walk on ice above the fires
we hover on a precipice
bind-folded by the wrong desires
our better hopes defeated
how did we come to this?
the storm brings rain to fill the rivers
we complain of changing weathers
we take for granted natures gifts
making wanton use of treasures
every creature great and small
brings blessings to the earth
while we destroy and poison all
how can we be so foolish?
we are earth’s most useless creatures
we will come to understand, too late,
the damage we have done ourselves
in breaking natures circle
we will recognise our awful fate
when we reap the final harvest
join the circle, strong, complete
to guard and bless the garden
there is no greater purpose
the only promised land we have
is here beneath our feet
that’s impossible, she said,
brushing all my joy aside.
that’s a strong word, i replied,
feeling wantonly denied,
let’s say improbable instead
life is full of things we don’t expect
i’ve seen hidden things revealed
you’d say it must have been a dream
i say it’s real but that’s no matter
real, unreal, deserve respect
reality is surface only
solid as hard rock it’s true
it grips our souls in solid matter
with all that’s purely possible
even rocks wear away
that’s more than probable, I’d say
i am looking in between
deep into a fluid river
where the shadows dance and play
it’s in the depths of things you’ll see them
it’s in the magic of the light
where the wind turns by the stream
like clearings glimpsed within a forest
there is a path that slips between
and there i saw with eyes askance
all those things unreal, unseen
The Dreaming Path 