I read the poets,
they spoke to my heart,
not my every day heart, my deep heart,
the one down by the dark river.

Then one day, for just a moment
I felt the angel of peace settle
on my aching shoulders.

I wrote down what happened
and when I read it I found
I was reading a poem.

Now I am fully literate,
I can both read and write.

Out here in the
garden this morning
it’s dark, misty and quiet,
just the sound of the trains
and the traffic in the distance,
nearby, the cry of a raven.

All around me I can hear
the leaves of the ash tree falling
a golden rain, a golden carpet
soft under my feet,
and all is peace.

When I go home
my soul will be imprinted with
the shapes of these London houses,
dark in the light of the dawn,
chimneys like ancient battlements
along the terraces,
and out here behind them
an oasis of trees, roses
and prowling cats.

 

Last night I felt
the starlight shining through me,
down into the earth under my back.
There was nothing I could do
save to suffer it and wait for the morning.
Stars are without mercy, they don’t stop shining
just because their beauty causes pain.

 

Sometimes in
my quiet moments
I can feel a great tide
moving underneath me,
mute, impersonal, unstoppable,
unconcerned with the things
that cause concern to me,
only that there must be change
and that if it should cease
everything else will too.

 

 

The ochre
had been there
for over 30,000 years.

They hadn’t
imposed anything,
they’d just seen
the animals
coming out
of the rocks
and added a tail,
or some horns
so that we could
see them too.

Deep in their temple,
far from the light,
they saw animals
being born.

 

I can see
by the light in your eyes
that you have travelled far,
so old and yet so young.

I can hear a train in the distance,
it’s windows filled with golden light.
Soon we will be passengers again, you and I.

You should have seen what I saw this morning!
The way the mist rose from the fields,
the cobwebs strung with light
and the sun gently greeting them.

How lovely this world is!
How sacred a gift!

Let us hold hands,
place our heads upon
one another’s shoulders
and our hearts in each other’s laps
that we too can be goldsmiths
before our train arrives.

 

Pace yourself
these last few furlongs,
let time unravel before you,
it would be a shame to
rush the last few steps,
they are the best part of the
whole journey.

When the finish is in sight
and anticipation at its height
measure your steps, walk slowly
and let yourself be seen.

Let them see
how you got here,
the scars on your body,
the marks on your soul,
let them see your lovely heart,
don’t look back, just let them see
how many failures it has taken
for you to succeed.

 

 

 

 

Do you think a violent man
deserves mercy, tenderness and love?
Of course he does. He is violent because
he doesn’t have those things within him,
or because they are buried so deeply
they are lost to his sight.

To the violent man mercy is the violence of the Gods.

 

 

The berries ripened
and then dropped one by one
into the lake water,
nobody saw them fall,
nobody saw the great carp
silently rising to greet them.

The empty windows of the cabin
looked impassively on,
the mice made nests in the rugs,
the snow came, the lake froze over,
and the rusting tins of food in the cupboards
settled in for yet another year,
waiting for the children to return,
waiting for the woods
to fill with their laughter again.

 

 

The dawn
was breathtaking
this morning.
As I got up to go
into the house
to get my camera
I heard a voice say,
‘No David, this dawn
is for you to experience
not to record, be still,
be still and bear this beauty with me.’