On Your Eightieth

 

Afternoon arrives

Before we know it

Catching us by surprise

 

Did we ever think

Each moment was

Forever

 

Gratefulness

Highlights time

Joy and

Kindness are

Lasting

 

Many things given

No time

Overthrows

 

Perhaps in its coming

Quiet and

Unnoticed afternoon’s

View

Wonderfully fills

Existence

 

Such stones

 

And now, at the renewal of all things,

it’s joy that is their substance and expression

of their form. It is as life begins

in spontaneity and innocence.

The lamb, however, bears its wounds – the marks

of former things miraculously enduring

in the dawn. It is as if the spark

of life initiates again – mature,

complete this time, the fruit instead of seed.

The bones that you have crushed, restored, awake

to shouts of joy, amazed at their reprieve.

A broken heart is never a mistake,

the cities walls are fashioned from such stones,

the residence of joy, and joy alone.

 

Paths

 

Walking across a field surrounded

by breeze.

A sunny path between houses.

Across the road a line of trees,

each glittering with sunshine.

The long straight path to my church,

grey light, the noises of afternoon.

 

Night sky

 

Blank night sky. No stars because of thin cloud cover.

Ahead the clouds are streaked. Pinky grey and black.

Behind the sky is more uniformly dark with a misty quality.

A gum tree looks delicate.

Another is a black silhouette, contained, but as if full of wind.

 

The Tree

 

An hour or two before the evening

the sun’s rays touched the tree,

dead, its last leaves pale on some branches,

a handful now, some little emblems

of light against the sky.

 

When I returned the orange light

was gone, clottered blood was

on its side, and sticks like

fingers pointing and

bark, like cast off clothes.

 

Prayer

 

A tree sunk and lost in a well,

its roots descending in the black waters.

The ocean is thicker than water or blood,

darker as starlight and night.

The tree drinks eternity,

fine leaves envelop its trunk,

shooting life to its outstretched branches.

 

God is my friend

 

God is my friend

In shifting light

of a windy day

I write this

 

I am outside

sitting among ferns

To my left is

a corner of bay

 

Ants walk on rocks

The wind disguises the sounds

of cicadas and birds

 

This is were I

spent my childhood

I can hear a dog’s bark

on the hill behind

 

When I touched

a sunlit fern leaf

it was blown from me

 

When I close my eyes

I see disturbed sand

sinking to the bottom

 

The low clouds

move quickly

I find sleep,

awakened by birds and ants