I left for the classroom.
Outside, the grasses and trees
had changed their colours.
The birds returned to their nests.
I wondered to myself,
where the summer had gone?
Perhaps grown old into my past.
Living on to come again.
Sometimes the sky
displays no ambition.
Worn out, and only
speaking softly of the earth.
Only when perceived
by the clear-eyed.
Can you see the fury
at rest in a natural peace.
I go and walk where
the magpies and
butterflies hang out.
Where the door is so wide open,
And I am surrounded
by rings of being
A life in the moment.
and without condition.
This is to be my way.
Overtaken by the dark,
I don’t think so.
With autumn now,
I can see the waves
that mask the gloom.
And smell the
sweetness beyond.
Each leaf of bamboo
grass a new way.
That calls our oneness.
Before the poem was written.
A dream had brought me to you.
If you insist on an explanation.
I find a soul’s shape
reflected in your words.
So rare in a world covered
with drops of erosion and loss.
We wear a mask.
A cover to design.
Trapped and repressed.
Whoever the guest.
Even before combat.
Light the fire of your mind.
And keep it burning
every moment.
The eyes see every move.
Heavy, thought-filled hands –
both pain and pleasure.
Flow as the goal.
Each fight, the last one.
There is no fear
but your mind.
This is truly the way.
Was it a dream?
I stood in the garden
holding her.
Shadows of the branches
of summer trees.
Drifting in and out.
I was transported,
telling the streets of her
eyes, hair and body.
And the smells of
the last English summer.
It was a pure giving.
The moon tonight.
My razor rusted.
Winter rain in the
distance.
Clouds floating.
A magpie sitting alone.
The last of the summer
butterflies flutters by.
All this in a moment.
And autumn so soon.
Beautiful, seen through a
mind expounding the way.
The highest hill –
is not so far away.
That I might not being back
the night appearing
autumns love.
With no one there,
I will savour it.
Like the lush leaves of spring.
And think “I am living still”
A Wandering Poet 