Saturday, 4 May 2013

Light and Shade and the Edge of Things

At the edge of something, between shadow and light, between mountain and sky, between ripple and flow; the definition of form is at its most acute. Just as a form is about to 'disappear' it is at its most intense, most brilliant. The edge is not always a comfortable place to be, as to reach there its necessary to move furthest from the zone of certainty in the Self. Yet it at the edge that insight occurs, connections fuse between the unexpected and so new experience is gained. At the edge of things.

                                                       When the bell was struck
                                                       a moment of Beauty
                                                       releasing sound within as without.

                                                      I, the bell; you, the bell,
                                                      the bell neither you nor I.

                                                      Still the sound resonates unbroken
                                                      penetrating the heart
                                                      stripping away layer by layer,
                                                      emptying the vessel of itself.

In the shadow
of the cherry tree,
a trace of frost?

As I drift away
on this slow boat,
perchance we may meet
if only in a dream.

Deep among the trees
Ferns dampened by birdsong,
Rising up the valley side -
Water flowing in song.

After the snow –
A washing line
Thick as a ship’s rope.
The path of foxes lingering too.

In the mountains
High among the peaks -
The sound of a bird calling out
Deepening the silence.

Silvered light
falling between
deep pools of vibrant mosses,
Across the surface
roots writhe and slither
gulping in air before diving into the soil.

Between the tree trunks
light dissolving
into deep still mirror pools,
From somewhere other - incense
& tiny birds scattered
among fallen maple leaves.

Deep in the night
a coyote band comes down the hill
searching, scurrying, squabbling, always talking.

Suddenly the yip-yipping voices
rise to a frenzied crescendo,
as they fall on fresh fear-frozen prey.

Meanwhile muted night birds await
for pitch black silence to resume.
Turning over, I pull the sheets tighter.

Above Yoshida hill
Infinite blue sky –
Two crows at play.

Skimming over damp moss
A tiny yellow butterfly-
This field of dreams!

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