(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.
