Clarity,
Office 17622,
PO Box 6945,
London.
W1A 6US
United Kingdom
Phone/ Voicemail:
+44 (0)20 3287 3053 (UK)
+1 (561) 459-4758 (US).
I’ll press flowers in a book
to show I have been to the places where they grow,
arrange leaves in a pattern depicting the trail
that led from one mountain to another and,
when chatter in the hall quietens down
and the lovers next door cease to murmur,
trace on a map the roads that took me
to a temple under an overhanging cliff, a glade
where trees discover heights in reach of ancient memory
or the river which plunged into a cavern
before reappearing again
on its way to the ocean…
after hearing the bell
and chant in the distance
a young man holding an object looked up
“So, you’re on a journey seeking new wonders.
Here, look at this
an ordinary buttercup somehow glowing…
descending from the clouds an old wayfarer paused to chat:
“I recommend you visit the highest point
because the view takes in all quarters.
Anywhere
you concentrate you’ll be rewarded
even the tombs of the warriors
who fought for the freedom of the many
can be glimpsed on the horizon
(the sunset echoing their blood)
the grave where you make offerings
to beings higher
than we encounter down below
hidden between a mound of ice
and an old pine near the path winding ‘round boulders
strewn across a battlefield”…
ambling along
unaware of strange surroundings
cloud cover grew deeper and evening dimmer
foolishly I had brought no lamp
only the late tune of a blackbird,
the first of a thousand drops
and the presage of cold wind to keep me company
no use feeling for signposts…
footsteps…
a light growing gradually brighter…
a solitary lady with a torch
“Of course, I’ll help you find your way
the moon can be obscured for a long time
in these parts…
I shan't ask too much of the innkeeper
he seems at his wits end with overwork
the bed, though, is clean, the meal adequate
and a red flower
has been placed on my pillow
but I could do with a wash
dare I ask him to prepare a bath
to soak my tired limbs?
no,
I can hear him arguing with the maid...
the shutters are closed,
the curtains drawn
and lingering rain passes overhead...
I’ll finish the map, repack my pack
and rest
until smoke rises for the morning cup
of tea, sugar is sprinkled on fruit,
the latch key opens the outer door
until I take to the road again.
to show I have been to the places where they grow,
arrange leaves in a pattern depicting the trail
that led from one mountain to another and,
when chatter in the hall quietens down
and the lovers next door cease to murmur,
trace on a map the roads that took me
to a temple under an overhanging cliff, a glade
where trees discover heights in reach of ancient memory
or the river which plunged into a cavern
before reappearing again
on its way to the ocean…
after hearing the bell
and chant in the distance
a young man holding an object looked up
“So, you’re on a journey seeking new wonders.
Here, look at this
an ordinary buttercup somehow glowing…
descending from the clouds an old wayfarer paused to chat:
“I recommend you visit the highest point
because the view takes in all quarters.
Anywhere
you concentrate you’ll be rewarded
even the tombs of the warriors
who fought for the freedom of the many
can be glimpsed on the horizon
(the sunset echoing their blood)
the grave where you make offerings
to beings higher
than we encounter down below
hidden between a mound of ice
and an old pine near the path winding ‘round boulders
strewn across a battlefield”…
ambling along
unaware of strange surroundings
cloud cover grew deeper and evening dimmer
foolishly I had brought no lamp
only the late tune of a blackbird,
the first of a thousand drops
and the presage of cold wind to keep me company
no use feeling for signposts…
footsteps…
a light growing gradually brighter…
a solitary lady with a torch
“Of course, I’ll help you find your way
the moon can be obscured for a long time
in these parts…
I shan't ask too much of the innkeeper
he seems at his wits end with overwork
the bed, though, is clean, the meal adequate
and a red flower
has been placed on my pillow
but I could do with a wash
dare I ask him to prepare a bath
to soak my tired limbs?
no,
I can hear him arguing with the maid...
the shutters are closed,
the curtains drawn
and lingering rain passes overhead...
I’ll finish the map, repack my pack
and rest
until smoke rises for the morning cup
of tea, sugar is sprinkled on fruit,
the latch key opens the outer door
until I take to the road again.