The Service

Always, at twilight,
a blackbird
on his favourite twig
sings alleluia.

Darkness falls.
Blackbird fades like any shadow
and the service ends.
It’s enough for me.

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In Circles

We do not own ourselves
but borrow from the living stream
a spool of life. Turning is all we know:
patterns that haunt the world, disintegrate,
drifting like smoke and fading out.

Intangibles, we grip the intangible.
Belief is a rock we cling to as we go:
floating through the day, we keep on living,
carried by the stream that has no end…
that passes through us…that we’re passing through…

I drew a circle with a compass.
A sort of god emerged, full of immense power,
but it did not speak…
so I drew another…
and another…

The Immanence

If everything was white:
the stars, the sky, the looming trees
and all the beasts and all the bees,

and every building white as these,
then there would still be names for them,
a word for each of these,

but there would be no word for white;
A universal shade, invisible in tone:
Far too evident to be known.