descent

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

cornerstone

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

ready

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

a good spot

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

pretending not to hear

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

one second

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

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