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The Beggar Poet's Hexagram 11: Peace

stevef

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Winter when I was a child that didn't seem colder,
fresher and icier than it does now


it just seems colder than I can bear.


Trees covered with frost reflected morning light


the feeling in my bones.


Snow on hedges,
the twitter of a bird
and the crunch of footsteps
to the old school room anticipated warmth,
firelight and a glance from the girl
who wore a ribbon tied in a strange knot


a trudge to a prayer room
to pray for release from suffering.


I’ll stand my staff against the doorway, assume a position
only the love for inconsequential facts could emulate
and cross my hands


the rhythm of the sea far off...


odour of plum blossom through the window...


absence of commotion,
chatter and concern
I lived a better life before this moment...


the chime of a clock tower...


the long walk home




a tree sprinkled with snow,
a mother who tried to instil a sense
of the right thing to do


the blue sky, awareness
unlimited by the demand
to know the source of inspiration




an old man leaving footprints,
the journey which will end
when words jumble into nonsense, lines disappear
in fog
and the will to reinterpret isolated incidents
in a manner which can be said to be one’s own
is put to rest.
 

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