The Garden

Here rest of a kind is to 

be found, the illusion of 

control the mind makes of 

its orderly lines, alone 

for a while, making of the 

rigid thoughts of day the 

freedom with which the more 

subtle mind of night might

follow the rustle of a warm 

breeze through the remembrance 

of summers past in which the

sharp words of day yield to 

the courtship of butterflies 

through a buddleia scented

breeze untrammelled by the 

shuttered door the more 

straitened day demands.

Mist Falling

The mist has descended again: 

the landscape changed, and not, 

in the absence the season brings.

Transformed by the feelings 

it engenders, as well as the

damp, cow dung stench of morning,

the dew on the grazing fields. 

Autumn is the expectation

of an ending, and turning,

and something new, the burning

light of morning and the colder

light of nightfall, knowing that

nature does not abhor a vacuum,

but only the stagnancy it

cannot bear.

The Red Kite

So this the distance you 

had to travel to find the 

gift that was always waiting 

to be found. Not in the

familiar hills through which

the mind roams, seeking solace,

but in the flatter lands of

another country, exposed 

beneath a sky unfamiliar in

the distant vistas that it

offers. There, circling with 

the same easy grace with which 

the gift was given, watchful,

always, of the days and weeks

of this eternity that we keep.