by Roy K Austin
I love the moor in May
covered with lavender and ling,
the strewn boulders that hide
an unimaginable power,
that tiny, violet flower
sheltered by favourite stone ;
a blue - tit sky, with spots of rain
that rust the bowl of the odd robin
and above it all, the lark
and the sun, drinking in the dark ;
I listen where I walk
to little streams, that talk
of what they fetch and carry,
collate the sounds, that they might
marry at the altar of my ear,
baptise my eyes and close them ;
light sparkles on bits of old ruin,
that splintered wainscot in the wilt of time
and still, that old green bottle
grappling with nature's silt,
my Zen - like thoughts follow the water
through a bottomless bucket
that had served someone well,
and who could tell
if I embark with an argosy
on my little ship of dreams !
Something breathes -
softens the focus of my eyes,
and all seems one and infinitely wise.
From Towards Atman
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