What right have I to be this happy now?
Lying long beneath this world
With all its stones and trees and wind and sky
To speak to friends and know that they, that I,
Still live despite the odds

Of nothingness and no love found
No tiny echoes of a liking that just grew
To be a life of one and all and things and stairs
(And maybe gardens too)
And the intricacies we carry with us through the world.

Till it is done, and we are gone and we can say for what it's worth for what it's worth, we're gone.
The very slowness and impatience of a cloudy nothing day is part and parcel of the wonder of it all.

Petrified of wider deeper words, we plod.
I like to ask the questions in my lines:
Open up a vein eternal to explore
That may prove lucrative
In words and looks and feelings.  Maybe more.

The look that touches and bewilders and restrains
But then gives in to open up a door.

And maybe more.

A little group of sycamores
In the corner of a field
A little higher than the rest.

I half run to its shelter.
Then catch my breath within
Their silent height.

And feel the sudden spell of trees
And give my wordless thanks
For being briefly with this family,
For this knowing place of simple air and light.

I need to find a way of celebrating every breath.
The train of day will leave my bedroom soon.
I will board, and, walking up the aisle
Watch fields and starlings fly.  
And will forget my breath.

Not so. No more could I forget my breath
Than I could you. Comingled
With the depths of self
Of life wellsprings and watery cells.
The grace and faith of the synapse
Being, binding blind in blood,
Test at any level
Oh would I could prove positive for you.

And so like Gods of battlefields remembering soldiers prayers
When they in cannon's mouth are blank with fear.
Do I not forget.
Do I not forget..

Of our common grief,
We spoke.
And when tears had dried - not gone,
I woke.
And you took my hand.

Miles along the sounding sands
We strayed
And then when cliffs above us rose
I gently lay
With you and looked my love.

Under summer's midnight moon  
There was truth to be again
I saw you clear
And buried in you, words of hope
I had long forgot.

Then came the sea’s long, withdrawing roar
Its strife  
Dissolved where breath and salt and longing poured.  
No knife  
Of time could part us there:  
We made love, raw as prayer.

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

You wake up in the morning - and all the lights still work
No circuit breakers tripped
And if raining, no drips on the wrong side of the window sill.
And blessing.  Just blessing.  
Just Everything.

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.