Blog: Pictures-Books-Reflections

intricate Intricate and untraceable weaving and interweaving, dark strand with light: designed, beyond all spiderly contrivance, to link, not to entrap: elation, grief, joy, contrition, entwined; shaking, changing, forever forming, transforming: all praise, all prais

  delicate The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer. The wind blowing, the leaves shivering in the sun, each day the last day. A red salamander so cold and so easy to catch, dreamily moves his delicate feet and long tail. I hold my ha

  unspoken Autumn The black moon turns away, its work done. A tenderness, unspoken autumn. We are faithful only to the imagination. What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth. What holds you to what you see of me is that grasp alone. from Denise Levertov, E

acting with no expectations Can you coax your mind from its wandering and keep to the original oneness? Can you let your body become supple as a newborn child's? Can you cleanse your inner vision until you see nothing but the light? Can you love people and lead them without

  The peace of wild things   When despair grows in me and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds

  awakening Enter the turret of your love, and lie close in the arms of the sea; let in new suns that beat and echo in the mind like sounds risen from sunken cities lost to fear; let in the light that answers your desire awakening at midnight with the fire, until its

  wild flower To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour. From William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

  wondering I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with lin

 (taken by JWW Savill Gardens June 2014)   tree   not even for a moment do things stand still: look at colour, in the trees   Seiju, his death poem (d. 1776, age 75)