Wednesday, October 3, 2012


I find myself translating
this story of birds, badgers, woods and bushes,
a story for children by a distant relative
plunging me into a distant world,
childhood and all.
As I write this on a whim
or in a further, as I realize,
attempt to define who I am
I feel that nothing has ever been distant or close
among the patchy fields and soppy ditches
I trudged on in lightheartedness or in throes
while laughing and crying and talking
and loving the air swarming,
the world is simply what has always
been here, defying definition,
past and present being nothing
or whatever you like
in the bustle and sameness
of the multifarious grass,
instants swept onward and vanishing
like fists of bright ash.
So what remains?
Nothing too unknown,
air, the moment and space,
the glow of this presence like a gaze;
what is, simple and absolute,
in front of your face.

1 comment:

Dave King said...

in the bustle and sameness
of the multifarious grass,

This phrase leapt out at me, suggesting more than it said and brilliantly summing up one of the more intriguing aspects of this life.
(At least, I thought so.)
Fine poem.