fifty years on

on the windowsill
the little Buddah
I bought in the Portobello Road
when I first learnt to meditate

fifty years on
and I finally get it

a thousand YouTube gurus
have their say

he says nothing

and that is all I need today

all on a summer’s day

I placed my feet in water
that sprang from sacred ground

the stones like silent counsellors
my wife and child stood round

some part of me I left there
it being so hot that day

the things that we remember
as memory falls away

a life as soft as water
a pillow where I lay

a pool along the wayside
all on a summer’s day

letter to none

I never wrote to you –
perhaps I should

love ties rope round
and then it pulls

leaves us stretching
like a kid under a tree

for one bright apple
nobody sees

I don’t like apples –
never did

don’t eat fruit much
and won’t until

sweet berries lean
towards my door

and that will happen
to me no more

failure to thrive

I found a flat grey stone on the beach
with scratch marks
scored deeply on one side

it reminded me of something I couldn’t account for
so I placed it in the yard
with other things I don’t care about
and thought no more of it

when I saw it again
the lines seemed more pronounced
(it may have been the light)
but it no longer reminded me of anything
other than how a young child starved of love
will fail to thrive

next day
I returned it to the beach

a three-legged dog followed me home
but I don’t want him

line breaks

I awoke unable to remember
how or why we write poems

or make these line breaks

alerting us to another way
of reading and seeing

now I remember

meanwhile
rainwater collecting in buckets
shines like something holy