Friday, 15 April 2016

The Scent of Mosses

The wandering stream
Finding its own way
From mountain rain to sea –
The scent of mosses.

Holding the line

As breath flows
Effortless the beginning
So, the unfolding into next.

Rhythm of the between
Spring sprung sprang,
In this unfolding is a return
To a place of the heart.
That’s all.

Passing by the same places
But now with different mind-sight,
Seeing not just points of arrival
But the spaces between,
This bridge of dreams
A point of transition.


If I sit quiet enough
The light unfolds itself.
No effort required
Grasping emptiness.
Stones hold their stories
Enshrined stillness in flow.