it was not until i found myself swimming alone
that i realised he was my rock
taken for granted always there
though i had watched the life source dim
with regret and compassion
there is no other rock out there
in the endless sea
now i see why he tried to teach me
to float to dry land, each time i swam off
flailing my arms about
was i pretending to myself again?
is it all illusion, fantasy, delusion, that life is beautiful?
am i walking in the dark, thinking there are lanterns?
are there angels in the trees? did I dream them?
can love be forever? is it ever?
will i drown in clear air for lack of hope?
when my heart leapt for joy was that all a lie?
can the world be empty darkness, as i saw it today?
where has all the glory gone that i saw yesterday?
perceptions, happiness, despondency,
the ebb and flow, what’s true, what isn’t,
no clarity, no balance, clouded vision
shadows dancing on the wall in firelight
music heard far off, the shade behind the waterfall,
a leaf turning in light, falling, landing rots to dust
the echo of a voice across a valley far away, sun sinking,
frost that silvers the hilltops, the cocks crow at dawn,
a sense that all is born to die, overpowered, as it must
light reflected in a lake, rainbows over cornfields,
swallows gliding on the high still air, above the wood,
the dark smell of mud, these are things i trust
joys, sorrows, melancholia, laugher, tears
bring what they may or go as they might
remembered or forgotten over tumbling years
a pattern, night into day, day into night,
underneath all this one beauty, shining bright,
burning light, conquering fruitless fear
a celestial light, strong and clear
thats illuminates true love
and a straight path
he wanders free in the wild wood
naked,
the glance of his eye a green sunbeam
filtered through ancient branches
his sigh a shimmer of leaves
he wanders alone in the wild wood
bringing the violent storm
and spinning the whirlwind leaves
he throws branches to the ground
to be gathered for fire and home
he wanders entranced in the wild wood
naked, he walks the paths of the deer,
those secret paths that are not to be found
unless you have eyes to see
the magic that shelters in trees
he wanders free in the wild wood
smeared in musk and honey
rabbits twitch their ears and suddenly run
you know you are watched
by the tingling of your spine
his feet buried in roots
his head circled by hawks
he is dangerous, terrible, beautiful
heady as wine, drunk on the sap of life
he is around the next turn and the last
promises are like butterflies
wonderful, even spectacular
but when you touch their wings
they cannot fly any more
i don’t promise
i care
when the power went out we were ready
the oil lamps were always filled
the white candles stood in their holders
all was warmth and comfort
we gathered more brushwood and bracken
kindled the fire, make it crackle,
piling on logs and driftwood
we had dried in the yard in the summer
the kettle was boiling,
bread steadily rising,
as we sat near the wood stove,
silently gazing, drifting in dreams,
telling stories and fantasies
hot baths in steam and candlelight
snuggling under thick blankets
while the wind rattled the roof tiles
making a flute of the drainpipes
life went on unchanging, undaunted
when the power came back
we flicked a switch and turned on the radio
the world stepped back into the house
bringing nothing of value
tonight in another time and place
i live in another era, with no power
the house instantly grows colder
i wander about with a battery torch
in rooms full of shadows
i missed you more
than the woodsmoke and firelight
and any old luxuries of survival
but none of it matters now
I have a horse I trust and rely on
I feed him, groom him, love him.
I stroke him, he nuzzles my ear.
My heart is gladdened when i see him
When i approach he comes without call.
We move as one in the wind
In a harmonious motion and rhythm
To ride him is pleasure and joy
If he were a wild cat trapped in a corner,
Or a scorpion entering my tent at night,
I would not feel this trust and calmness,
No affection would shine in my glance.
I might expect to sustain a wound,
A wound that might even be mortal.
But my horse is not a cat or a scorpion,
He is my friend and companion.
So the wound from my beautiful horse,
When he suddenly turned and kicked me,
Hurt more than scorpions’ sting or tiger claw.
I don’t know where this blow sprang from,
Some hurt of his own perhaps.
Now we look at each other a little askance
And I wonder how to approach him again.
I only know I must heal this
This healing is bound with my love of him
But my wound is still open and sore.
An enemy is expected to hurt us
We guard against the attack
But when a creature cherished and loved
Gives the blow and the hurt
This wound ploughs a furrow far deeper
It strikes straight and strong to the heart.
the palace of gold and blue
stood high above on the hill
shimmering in heat like a mirage
the chatter of monkeys was shrill
in the river below elephants bathed
later that evening, so clearly recalled now,
as the sun dipped down in a pink haze
we saw a sadhu with a white cow
we followed to a tea stall
by the steps of an old temple
the cow so beautiful, gentle
its eyes lined with khol
wore a garland of marigold and a bell
that rang softly as it gazed at me
reaching my heart and casting a spell
on the temple steps we sat
slowly sipping hot tea
beneath a sickle moon and one bright star
we spoke in quiet voices
until the man and the cow both bowed and walked on
i see that cow as clearly years later
as if it was but a moment ago
i listened to the sadhu’s every word
it was the white cow i heard
it spoke only of acceptance and love
How do people fall in love?
Is it purely chemistry?
How does that work
When you can only feel an atmosphere?
Body language, eyes,
A smile at all the right moments.
But more than this it must be.
All meetings are by chance
So how is one more meaningful than another?
Instantly and mutual.
With friends it’s all we have in common
That makes and holds us, long or short,
But love? We fall before we even know.
The head may struggle to hold back
But the heart is already given,
And who can ignore the heart.
So without a metaphor or rhyme
I ask myself these questions.
The older I grow the less I really know.
No certainties any more.
I am mystified.
My heart is not.
i write
she sits by the fire
stretched on a rug
smiling
i try to write
how distracting
how beguiling
the bees in their hives
lazily buzz
outside the cottage door
my pen drips honey
sticky, sunny, runny
not a word reaches the page
i stare at the page
keep glancing at her
remembering moonlight
starlight
firelight
last night
and honey
always more honey
Pan is out there
in the garden again
spreading his scent
in the air
the sweet floral notes
that play
with his deep musky darkness
wafts through the window
the silver bells
on her ankles jingle
as she uncrosses her legs
she is dreaming
i watch every movement
her toes to her thighs
they invite me
delight me
excite me
unwrite me
Pan hides in suburbia
But he stalks the midnight streets
Bringing amorous dreams
With secret smiles.
Some people say he is dead
They must have no sense of smell.
Some say he’s the devil
To tempt you into hell
But I know he is magic.
I heard his thrilling music
As it flew along the wind.
I fell under his spell.
He got in my hair and tangled it,
He made me feel free and real,
He whispered on my skin.
There is no danger in Pan.
He brings nothing but good,
Pleasure is no sin.
Pan never caused a battle
Or shattled anyones feet,
He dances with joy
In a dervish whirl more wild
Than a tornadoes spin
And brings in a summer breeze.
He sets all the leaves to dancing
And flickering with beautiful light
High up in the branches of trees.
He makes brooks babble
And babies laugh at nothing.
He shines in lovers eyes.
If more people followed Pan
The world would be more wise
The Dreaming Path 