Surprised
by the moon
in the bog
going out
to kick stones
last of the day
My thin veined hands
browned
by the long summer
Dead lamb
the wind
flickers its ears
Lined up
outside the meditation door
forty worn and silent shoes
Butterfly
hovers
on my open diary
Still
as the frozen pond
the plastic duck
Mountain wind
through my ribcage
already
leaning on a gate
long shadows of thistles
this sixty-seven year heart
Beside the hedge ~
a person!
crow's wing flutter
"Nobody about!"
says the stride of the hunter
entering my yard
Old ant hills, tumbled stones
this pasture of the ancient dead
my lunch stop
No moon
to guide me off the mountain
only the flaring comet trail
-------
Jet setting monk
laptop and begging bowl
the air hostess bows
(Spring 1997, Kyoto and Kamakura)
On my black robe
grey and listless
flies of autumn
hay bales
dumped across the golden stubble
lengthening shadows
Scoving in West Cork
Famine cabin
its apple tree
still blooming
Stones I've placed
to mark the only safe descent
the mist thickens
Suddenly
the lough
each islet
in its place
Between the Atlantic
and all that rock and bog
dozing by the fire
(In Cork dialect "to scove" is to wander about the land)
The headstone
alive with flies
Sitting the long retreat
geese at dawn
geese at sundown
Ram lambs
pressed against the mountain gate
one more evening
First day of spring
everyone
has time to spare
Lighting the stove
I wake up my companion
a sleepy fly
Through the mist
the drumming of little hooves
on frozen pasture
Long beams of roaring light
beneath the dawn moon
the big trucks
Heavy coils of smoke
from new-lit fires
slowly the day begins
Paving stones
those that go clunk!
and those that don't
Oil lamp in each hand
unable to reach the switch
that isn't there
Widower's dead
his furniture burnt
only his woodstack left
Fleece bedecked
with cherry leaves
she chews her curd
Between Kingdom
and Republic
a silent pot holed road
Ringing
silence
the clapperless wake-up bell
Broken man
all day long
splitting oak
Desolation -
grateful
for my wife's boot prints
Dismasted pines
their riven branches
point in all directions
Weeks of rain
quiet beasts
stand in fields
Darkening morning
husband and wife
keep closer
back and forth
through the wood
the bark
the echo
No spring
stone saucer of rain
rippled by the wind
In moonlight -
split ash
its smooth white flesh
New diary
seven days a page
my life now
Where two streams meet
my wife cast a spell
her grey hair
Underlining
pain
the livid blue horizon of the bay
Unsteadied by saké
in my pocket
the corner of my passport
"Green Activist"
standing upright
in the waste bin
Out of the brightly lit house
off to the brightly lit meeting
the moon at the gate
Out of darkness
wind chimes
made of bones