photograph

there is this:
each leaf on the ground
must be recorded somewhere
in a great book
where they outnumber us
even to our sins.

Poetry Route

you don’t share holy places.
these will all be revealed,
or have been found already,
or were lost.
still, if you understand
you will hold onto a holy place
more tightly than wishes
you know the wolf’s breath
is hot on your neck.
this one book is yours alone to open
to translate, through years of misunderstanding.
this once, drink alone and deeply.

(not yet) spring

the past springs inform the present hope
and travel past me, through time, to greet me:
I wait for each fresh leaf
as though it were an old friend of childhood
and the new thrust of life
burns away some more of mine.
still I love this last mystery
while all the others have failed me.

Evening

the snow is falling
so beautifully
without cost;
and my breath
steams away
to the air.

weakness

no one ever says,
“I want to love everything I can
as hard as I can:
there’s only so much time
allotted to me
to love this way.”
we spend a whole life
dodging thorns
like a drunkard falling back and forth
onto the rose hedges.
still, one moment of love
is better than the hand overturning
the whole cup.
one drop is enough to fill a jar,
given patience.

winter morning

the sky paled like an opal, chatoyant with delicacy,
each tree was gilded in electrum,
fanning out into the sky – or was the sky sinking to them?
the river was armoured in alabaster, and did not speak,
for a moment, I thought nothing of spring.

for my mother

the gift is left, again and again,
strength when tested,
stubbornness against strong winds,
adaptation in hostility,
generosity in austerity.
divide this courage
and one small part
is enough to save
many whole lives

for Matthew

I went out seeking.
I struck against the other,
and knew it for that music
I’d been waiting to hear.
I didn’t need teaching;
this is the natural mode of all things,
down to the pebble in the road
joyfully bounding against its fellows.
if I were alone, I’d know some other song
but I like this one, that I’ve heard
echoing back to me from the end of my life.

premise

you start from the wrong place.
that the garden is filth, the roses are weeds,
the fountain pouring clear water is flowing with mud.
nothing pleases you,
not the song of the small brown bird in the tree
or the breeze that leads you to press your face to the earth.
if I offered you food and drink, you’d strike it from my hands,
you’d tell me you have to go on – there is a better garden further.

but this garden is sunlit in the morning of its life,
and each one – flower, bird, fountain – is in the place necessary.
I promise you, from sun to worm,
beauty descends into everything. none of it is wasted.

later on, you might find the best sleep, the most fantastic dreams,
should you start in bed? or will you wake at the gate like a child,
curious and trusting in wonder?
I will miss you when you leave. had you not arrived,
I would not even be waiting for you, amid all this.

north

now, the river is set as a jewel in gold
across the throat of the old sky.
very soon
she will put down her wealth
and go far into the hills.
don’t look for her cave;
that path leads only one way.
even the trees are crouched
with their arms around each other,
even the wind is cold, and howls to be let in.
when it is worst, then she appears.
that day, she tosses away the grey veil
even the mountains and the bones of the earth
are lighter, and lift their heads
like the first day after suffering.