Sometimes from my doorstep on a morning
Of drifting pollen grains I can hear the silence
Hushing about the eaves,
Pouring its attention into mountain streamlets.
By mid morning the vast rolls of the sea
Break around the blue cliffs,
Splitting apart and merging into wholeness
Like the wrecking and healing of time.
Sometimes fragmented rhythms chance upon
These knotted flows of sound;
Warnings of incoming gales beneath shafts of sunlight
Demanding step-by-step negotiations.
But such mornings should always be undertaken
With great respect for its own moods.
Even tricky surfaces are holy ground,
Twigs, pebbles, stones and seaweed underfoot,
Touching, scraping, padding the skin
To give us memory, to give us a life
Worth remembering.
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