Thursday, 6 June 2013

Slipping and Sliding


Through the grace of movement, skies opening, clouds passing, coming close and then drifting apart. Sounds at first barely discernible above the clattering of life passing, the song we sing. The song we desire, the song we feel we need to make us a whole. For there always seems to be something that does not quite align. I took a path and it lead me towards you, then the path shifted, or was is the way I saw things unfolding? Was it that which I could not hold to, take in and keep it as my dream, my purpose, sufficiently well to make a part of my own identity. So I let go, my fingers uncurled and the wind did the rest; my palm now laid bare to the air and the rain that fell without ceasing. I caused you pain, I made the world a bitter tasting place, and now there is only regret for that.

Perhaps its because the search is never ending, the search for a point that constantly recedes, ebbs away  on a tide of experience and the desire to bring something, just even one thing, to be enflowered. Somewhere in the forest we walk through is a truth yet to be uncovered, a truth diamond hard and unflinching in the light. A changing that does not change, does not shape shift, a constancy beyond reckoning.

Perhaps when these eyes finally see beyond mountains and valleys, beyond sky and earth, beyond good and bad, beyond sweet and sour, beyond words, sounds, sights, scents, perhaps then... Until then the search will continue.


Now the sky has cleared,
A red kite wheels
Above the trees.
Carrying your warmth within.


1.
witnessed by the moon,
by flames of sacred woods -
a dance began.

in another way:

2.
a single stroke,
tar black ink on white paper-
a perfect circle of emptiness.

 in another way:

3.
one dance,
two circles –
light.


Darting from stone to stone,
Only by its motion
The wren reveals its presence.


It seems puzzled
This fly at the window glass –
The rose bush
Out of reach.



Beyond the separation of distance
And perhaps even time itself
Presence remains –
After sitting still
The scent of incense lingers on.