Planting a great oak at Shawbottom
and returning each year to say, “I did that”,
that would be something.
The sapling trees were ready in pots,
the spade resting against the shed.
I could only claim a short-lived success
weeding between the paving slabs.
About his many enlightenment experiences
Sawaki Roshi once said,
“they didn’t amount to a whole hill of beans”.
In my secret koan, ‘Tokusan’s Bowls’,
ego-jousting monks
cause trouble for themselves and others.
When the Chan Hall door opened and closed
it stopped me in my tracks.
Repetitive forms, the torrent of racing time,
contract the visit
to few, brief, moments of mind.
The crippled fly taking off out the window.
The approaching calf who seemed to know me.
Saddened to leave the serenity and the wilderness,
I gaze out over Grenoside Woods.
Mind still as a tree trunk.
The vast, cloud-wrinkled sky
knows it is time for a cup of tea.
