Winter Buddha

After midnight, when the still streets
drip from the trees audibly soft leaves
and I smile to hear sleepy voices
silenced by a closing window's sound,
I take a match to an incense stick
and set bright the dark candle in my private shrine.

With six slow breaths the pillared flame
sets this brooding throne aglow
where, pivoted upon some silent thought,
the golden face spans inwardly
the space between the symbol and the seen.

Come close, with eyes as camera
trace the perfections of a latent shot,
memory projected on a screen,
moment immortalised perhaps or trapped;
perceive, half hidden under downcast lids,
the open eyes now fixed yet flexible
filling quietened rooms and grateful heart
with the silent quality of the street-
space between windows
treading softly between couchant forms.