IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE

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.

But…distant?

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.