V. 2. / 113.) From My Garden, A Glimpse . . .

From my garden, a glimpse of the river beyond

And from the open door in my grey stone wall

The trickling stream of my dream that flows

Down to join it, weaving its willing way towards

The joy, in what it knows it will find there – and

All seen by the flickering light of the bright cresset

Behind me, burning above on my waiting walls

Throwing out my shadows all dancing before me

To join with the stream, in my dreams of the finding

Of the end of them, in the river, and the beginnings

Of the see-through-life they had foreshadowed, for

Where I wasn’t I was free, where was no substance

All was gone, and where all was gone all was his.

      *

112.) A Bright Well The Breeding Place . . .

A bright well the breeding place:

Because it rises it has effect

Because it moves it has life,

And takes you places

As it grows in you . . .

Silent, still, it achieves

Nothing but darkness:

Stagnant waters die:

Unreleased life festers

And drowns in its own juice.

                        *

111.) To The Opening In The Telling . . .

To the opening in the telling

To the expounding in the unravelling

The keys were the letters, and the letters

Were the keys, and the thing that ran

Between their meetings, that told, was life

And in the tiniest measure of a fingertip

In some sequential order, ordered inside us

And in and by the mind of our spirit there

The inside and out of a living life

Running from our centre and seeping out.

*

V. 2. / 110.) What He Gives And What I Have Are Same . . .

What he gives and what I have are same:

Sometimes, before I even had a thought

His thought was there for me,

To write it down, if I wished;

Before I even had an idea

His was there, waiting for me,

If I liked; and sometimes the words

That came to me were a middle

Or an end of a piece,

And the beginning came to me last;

Even the next day sometimes . . .

And it was as if I were spelling backwards.

                               *

109.) Where He Set Pauses . . .

Where he set pauses, I waited

Where he put periods, I stopped

Without him there was nothing

Nothing there.

I loved, as I could, with all of me

Because he had given it to be so,

Before any dawning of time.

Twin roses he had grown,

They alone upon the single bush

Told the untellable tale:

He loved me and he made me

To know it.

 *

108.) Out Of The Painted Tree . . .

Out of the painted tree comes the mystery

The painter saw there;

We are given his eyes, if his work is true,

To see more for his showing us

Than we might have seen

For ourselves;

Perhaps, there is hope yet, for a poet . . .

      *

107.) It Ran Streaming Down . . .

It ran streaming down the silver rock face

Gliding, sliding, seeping from the overhang

Above – Alive in bright sunlight the cliff edge

Green with slimy moss and with creeping

Plants clinging fast to the high precipice,

Which was surely basking in this midday sun.

You never knew how you found it, or when

It overtook you, as you stared upwards at it,

It was just there, when you turned your head

The knowing, the being-known within you:

The water seeping through you, falling,

Calling in its glistening descent, until it found

Its place in you, in the deep pool there at your

Feet – As much the stuff of life to you as to the

Tree there, its roots and feet growing down

Into the slowly moving water, spilling so gently

From the pool, bringing much-looked for life

To the dry valley of rocks . . . and to you . . . for

You were awakened, now, you knew, you’d heard.

  *