It is the time for love
Of course it is
What a thing to say
When is it not that time?

Perhaps it is never more
Never has been more
Than now
Yet somehow we wait
Wait for what?

Wait for a higher authority?
When there is none to wait for
Wait for permission?
When it's there to give ourselves all along
Wait for someone else to go first?
When we are that someone.

Now more than ever
Is the time
For love, for
The telling
The giving
The living of it

Now

With the first awareness of morning
I sense the kind of clarity elusive
at other times of day.

She is a singular breath, formless,
offering insight into the endlessness
of something pure.

Yet she moves away as thoughts come:
those dissenting armies that ***** in
to involve me in the containment of opposites.

She will not be held in place by argument.

I long for her when she leaves.

My intention is to attend to her when I’m able.
To be the gardener who loves the flower.

That she might touch me when she will
That she might find me, often

In the gentleness of contemplation.

Within and beyond
your self
is another
self

And other selves
within and beyond again

Within and beyond
your self
are all selves

All beyond
and within
as one.

Drown in the blue sky
the blue sea
the green land
and all the while, white waves, of wash,
cloud or smoke arising, and
on this rock I am every particle
I can see, and more than I am,
none of this, and separate is
my life a paradox continuum
inexplicably explained as
stable passing impermanence, and
if I could drown in the blue sky
I would do it flying.

A little empty that morning
she sat on the top step
of the verandah
sipping tea, sipping thought.
Three steps down to the pavement
squares of sandstone
lay in even handed rhythms;
flatly refusing to contour.

He’d moved away last week; big bloke, big smile
could clasp four pavers in one hand,
laid the lot inside ten days,
maybe a record, who could say.

Completed, the pavement was now empty of him,
no more scraping back, no more chipping out,
no more broad smiling hands
reaching for her cups of tea.

She missed this; as she missed the slightly flat renditions of
‘midnight oil’ and ‘fleetwood mac’, the **** of his straw hat
and the farewell call of... "see you sometime in the morning suze..."
(always at exactly 6.30 a.m.)

He was big on tea,
said he was glad
to meet someone who knew it
wasn’t merely the dis-colouration of milk.
She’d smile at that, he was right,
things like tea were best, given time to infuse.
She sipped her tea, sipped her thoughts
and the deeper taste that came with a little time.

A change of mind
a change of heart
a step this way
or that
a moment held
or given
a step away from light
naive or dark.

Is choice
an invitation
and if so
by whom
or what?

Those million
thoughts that lead to actions
now or
down the track:
and then this
what if that
to pick up
to put down
to left to right
to leave to stay
and on until
a path or paths are found
or trod
or followed.

If everything is choice
what is not
- to step from instinct to intuition
- to love my wife
- to love my children
- to love the god of life
- to write this.

The barometer of
heart
the judge and jury of
the mind
the guides
the angels
assisting
and the thoughts
that tend to lead
to actions
that tend to lead
to feelings
that tend to lead to more
thoughts which sometimes
are discoveries
that tend to lead
to choices
down the track.

The map of my life
can be seen
by turning
my head to the south.
With the benefit
of hindsight
I see I am and have been
passenger and pilot
messenger and message
drawing and drawn
but with this
I must ask
is it that I am also
a choice
and if so
by whom?

The three of you
waving your brave little hands,
smiling love and mischief at me
through the tinted glass
of the big green bus.

I’m standing tight to the kerb
screaming at the concrete
as I smile
waving back with gusto.
‘I love you ‘
mouthed in silence
‘have I failed you?’
a silent question.

I wave until you’ve turned the corner -
gone in a juggernaut like
stolen children;
the street where we laughed
only a minute ago
now more empty than a new coffin.

I walk back to the car knowing we will go through this
again and again
- every time you visit for the weekend.