The clarity of the water,

like a window

with another world below,

moving slowly,

other rippling waves at its periphery.


Pictures painted on its surface:

a sky untroubled by clouds,

inverted trees adding to the sense of

an unreachable dimension.

To the west, the sun is burning -

burning out for another day,

casting gold across the world

in its farewell.


The clarity of the water,

like the floor of a glass-bottomed boat.

The temptation to walk across it,

but the knowledge that I’d sink.


Standing on a wooden jetty -

a ‘portage point’.

Standing as if waiting,

as if waiting for the Ferryman,

who has today been delayed;

waiting as if it’s the only thing to do.


The clarity of the water,

like an art form understood.

Blossoms trace its journey -

spots on the smooth, clear screen.


Around it,

the Causeway to the east,

arms and fingers on the banks -

plants stretching upwards or outwards

from their roots -

and a pastoral scene before me:

motionless grazing sheep.

(Rushing water in the distance,

noisy mallards in the foreground)


The clarity of the water:

the serenity before sleep.

Nothing earthly is eternal

but for now I can keep this timeless.


The openness of the sky,

pervading my peace-seeking mind;

the stillness of Air’s aura,

if not of those who intrude it.


The clarity of the water;

the desire to step down,

to enter it,

to be enveloped in the calmness,

the motionlessness:

to be overcome by the depth.

The need to find its unknowing kin -

be held, be comforted, be changed to

a vessel of peace.

I don’t want to go,

I don’t want to leave,

but even as I am contented

by thinking and writing -

by learning Me -

I’m aware of a pocket,

the anticipated call to return;

I listen out for the bells

which will tell I’ve overstayed;

I know my other life -

the usual one -

and these are the Reality.

The clarity of the water,

and its underworld: a dream.

The End

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