Retreat Poems

(Written during a three month solitary retreat at Mount Amiata in Tuscany, Italy).

Sitting by the doorstep 
on a dusty sheepskin 
in the early morning, 
a hazy sun warms my cheeks. 
I wonder what will
come to mind? 
I remember my dreams. 
My thoughts are like 
a bird tied to a pole 
by a long string. 
they fly in endless circles 
under the illusion of freedom.

Alone 
all alone 
in an empty room 
in an empty house 
on a wind-blown hill.

What do I feel? 
What do I really feel? 
Lonely?
Yes.
The images speak for themselves...

Nothing moves, only silken mist 
translucent as a moth's wings 
hovering between the cliffs.

Silently the mountain breathes, 
recumbent like a dragon 
coiled upon the world beneath.

Dark leaved candytuft and thyme 
are secretly disclosed in rocky 
gardens, miniature and wild.

Sitting quietly in solitude 
I lose myself, absorbed 
by the mountains sombre mood.

Today the mountain tops 
are clothed in mist 
and a heavy scent of rain 
pervades the valley. 
A north-west wind blows hard 
making the shutters bang. 
At night, I sit by the fire 
with a candle.
I don't like the smell of the oil lamp.


The first snow came 
amazing me, as it always does
with its perfect beauty. 
Icicles hang from the gutter 
jagged as dragon's teeth. 
Walking outside, the wind 
blows the snow in my face:
I can scarcely see my own footprints!

The wind howls outside 
the world is grey with mist 
I drink tea beside the stove 
and think of you.

Daylight drifts into disguise 
night begins her dance 
a bat flits by... 
rocks of ember come alive 
earth and sky embrace 
a presence of the dart-eyed 
goddess has arrived.

As outer pre-occupations dwindle 
inevitably the stream runs on, 
but since I find its going no-where 
there are no conclusions to be drawn.

Now, looking inwards I find 
the same stream going nowhere, 
in practise I can only do my best. 
I clearly see how I am trapped.

Why carve words out? 
All is poetry 
to the mind's eye 
as it is.

Why tamper 
with reality?
The wind has changed 
it blows from the south 
with spring and the scent 
of the sea..... 
the trees and grasses 
now bow to the north; 
the mountain remains unchanged.

In the clear blue sky a skylark sings, 
the wind sighs in the winter broom, 
the only other sound is the "ting" of the 
wind in the wind chimes beside the door.

Too involved in poetry 
I let the stove go out.

Outside my window 
the mist shape-shifting 
makes phantoms of bushes 
the valley is shrouded. 
Does the mountain exist?

Why am I afraid of clarity 
and sensitivity? 
Because the strength of simplicity 
is stunning!

Everything is perfect
there is nothing to be attained.
I am here alone drinking tea beside the stove.
I never guessed what perseverance
is required to re-attain simplicity.

Why do I search for the poignant words 
giving birth to poetry?
Is it to share
the quiet beauty of my isolation? 
For whom do I write and round my thoughts. 
trying to touch the essence of my being?

I stand on the bridge between 
this world and another:
the play of light and darkness 
on the water makes me dizzy.

You said 
that when we met 
you'd wear a feather
so that I could recognise you. 
but when you came 
it was I
who wore the feather.