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.


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.