Step outside the garden door,
with bare feet on cold concrete,
and after the realisation that it’s not so bad,
you can bear it,
move on to the dew wet morning grass,
to the uncut patch,
where the secret life within grounds you
to the heart of your heart,
to the world heart,
to the one sacred whole where you know yourself in everything,
where everything has it’s peace,
and even inanimate objects
find their rest in the sacred.
In this wind,
Estuary waves crash like surfers on the sand.
What news do they bring from far-away lands
(from my notebook – May 13th)
I’m sitting on a rock below the Power’s place where tumbled rocks, heaped upon each other, stay the land-slip for a while. A fallen tree branch lies horizontal, fresh green sprouting to the sun.
Something stirs in my heart. I seek its message.
Be like a rock, it says. This wind brings change. Build solid foundations. Let roots settle, contained in fertile ground to flower as all things should.
Wind-swept clouds streak like feathers across the sky.
Oyster shells gleam like little silver plates. The tide rushes in.
Wind dashing over hawthorn bushes.
Sea-smacks on the rocks below the cliff.
The hum of engines trawling the mist like a lost soul,