E. Best: lyrics | fictions | episodes
snowflakes flutter to the ledge
as I sit in darkness
awaiting the mystery of the dove’s descent
your face drops in instead
unannounced
the bell tolls thirty minutes
my time is at an end
sacred or profane
it’s all the same
love is all there is
an unseen flame
binding us all
to itself
you wrote your name in the palm of my hand
and laid the cornerstone
I threw into the lake
it sunk so deep
we haven’t found it to this day
though I never tire of looking
like your book
that I drowned in the bathtub
(I am so sorry)
but it never was the same
after that
it says I’m writ in the palm of your hand
and the rock that was laid for us that day
can never wear away
sunlight on an empty vessel
in the deserted house along the shore
only when I am like that empty vessel
will I be ready
for my guest to call
when the wind and the sea and all the landscape
know me and recognise me
as one belonging
then – only then
will I be ready
for the coming
you gave me the gift of solitude
I called it loneliness
but it was solitude
and you gave me the gift of constant longing
I called it brokenness
disrepair
but only the gift of constant longing
could keep me searching endlessly
for what is always here
everywhere
the library corner in the new house
is a good spot for meditation
from my chair I can see
a spire rising up between trees
assuming it to be a place of worship
I wondered what denomination it might be
then I was told it was the spire
of the local shopping centre
but it makes little difference to me
it’s still a good spot for meditation
still a spire rising up between trees
darkness before dawn
I listen
as is my practice
lifting the mug of coffee to my lips
with both hands
the dog is sleeping on the bed
you tell me (as have others)
that the truth is closer
than I am to myself
closer than the thick black liquid
quickening in my throat
only it’s not working today
it is not here
that which with a rush is only everywhere
in your voice
the quiet breathing of the dog
the sip of coffee
grace knows no horizon
the heart no other resting place
than this
yet I’m no wiser
like children at a rock pool
we have dipped our buckets
and I have drawn up nothing once again
curious water
a ribbon of seaweed
if I were on my deathbed
even now
yours is a voice
to lead me by circuitous paths
to nowhere
which is the only place
I ever thought to be
it might be birdsong
or the voice of my father
calling up the stair
as I rocked on my heels
pretending not to hear
so long ago
I spit the grounds
place the mug down gently to one side
close my tired eyes
and see more clearly
that I am never closer to God
than when I am about to fall
and know
there is no one here to catch me
but myself
so long I have waited
listening for a footfall at the door
now in that very listening
am assured
that You have never left this house at all
for one second
but have in all this time
been overlooked
simply ignored
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
contemplate the air that we breathe
this open field
the gentle rustling of leaves
and all around
then observe
the miraculous company of birds
maybe then
you will believe
there is an end to suffering
maybe then
you will believe
there is a place called everywhere
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
