There are no words
For that feeling
That precedes tears.
The eyes lose their sparkle
And focus, chin falls, and
Lips tremble.
The loneliness of it all
Seems worse in the crowd
Jostling at the change of lights,
Pedestrians, scooters, cyclists,
Cars turning, ignoring us all
Standing like sheep,
Huddled together for safety.
In this strange city
I have no language to ask
'Are you all right?'
And in the moment of
This thought arising,
That cannot be put into words,
The lights change and the tide
Of the pressing throng turns,
Sweeping us on without
Another thought.

Written in water
On stone path, calligrapher's
Words evaporate.

Did Confucius mean
Literally to set his
Ideas in stone?

Moonlight and gentle breeze
Caress the Great Wall.
Evening star our only companion.
Faintly dogs bark
In the village below.
Through the still night
Distant sounds of straining trucks
And honking horns along
The highway from the provinces,
Driven through the wall
To bring steel to the capital.
One sunset to one sunrise,
In an infinitely repeated cycle.

I wish to acknowledge my sources.
The "ursprung" of the work of art
Brings to mind the source of the Nile,
A field of knee-high grass rippling
In a gentle breeze beneath a clear sky,
Water springs up from the ground
To begin its journey to the sea.
Beyond the hill-crest white turbulent
Clouds rise majestic and threatening,
Carrying moisture borne by the wind
From far away; who knows where
The cycle begins and ends?

You cannot get lost in the bush
Because you are where you are.
Walk in any direction
And you will come out somewhere.
In a film I didn't like at first,
The lead characters are lost
In a swamp searching
For rare orchids; the guide,
The orchid thief, sets up a stick
To find the Sun's shadow,
Musing "It's not about collecting
The thing itself; it's about getting
Immersed in something;
Having it become part of your life;
It's a kind of direction".
Then he knocks over the stick.
There is no shadow to help us.
He and I chose a direction to go,
And it took us away from all that.

A strong north westerly wind
blows out of a clear sky.
Walking this shore of sand
swept high, covering rocky ground,
firm and cool under foot,
brings back memories of last October,
the first swim of summer,
the warming sun, the still-too-cold water.
Long before that, sailing to windward
against a north westerly wind and sea,
plugging away against spray and waves,
seemingly endless, till at last, calm water.
The words of the novel  stop my tracks:
"So we beat on, boats against the current,
borne back ceaselessly into the past."
Looking out to sea under today's clear sky,
the sun slowly warms after a swim, likely
the last of this summer, before
our coldest months, wind and showers
sweep in from the southern ocean,
until October comes round again.
The thought warms me, and turning
into the wind and sunshine, I walk
back home along the beach.