Simple blessing beauty kindness
Sprinkled from on high
And welling from below
And as ordinary and lovely
As an egg cooked on a stove

Don't try

I'm everything you know
And do not know

Don't try.

Now throw the ball

There will still be hearths and fires and warmth

But doors swing open. Sometimes

In the night

The breath of moors and moons and birdsong blown

To distances


The exhilaration of the strange.


But out there is

But out there is…


Aligned with the deep

Loving all of

Is ness,

Being,


Worms in fields,

Larks

Planets, and


The Nothing that is worth worship


And the furthest reaches of

Of

I am.

He doesn't speak.
Certainly not giving advice.  
He's just there, sweeping along, robes flapping and flying.
With his staff.
Moving up!
Yeah man!  

Grown up HARD
Man of his hands.
Knew the Gallows Priest Gilpin
Shriving reivers on the scaffold
Knowing the deep light
Other side of night.


He's just there.

He's just here.
He's just

Here

His plane sailed into a milk-white sky,
white mare's tails spiraling in pale water.
Mind and time became elastic as he
vanished away and then returned.
I look for days like this in winter,
with hints of soft sunshine
and opalescent clouds.
Sometimes the harshest season
is the kindest, and paints a scene
that soothes artist and lover,
when wishing hands part the cloth
of reality with dream.
Or when the earth itself
Seems to remember soft interglacials
And seasons seemingly spun
Like cotton candy to soothe
The wounds inflicted by us.
Earth is like the mother spider,
eaten by its young.