mountain silence,
I will get to hear
the shifts of light . . .
I am well versed in the paths
of your valley mists

poet's park
only the rustling grasses
on this trail

the dew drop
hanging still from the leaf . . .
it would not be
had not my own eyes
been tinted by dawn

entering the mist
I become so at one
with mere being
that, with the forming of shapes
and words, it slips away

in autumn rain
the living too are strangers —
graveyard moss

all my reading quietly enkindles

fallow field
the folds of what
I plough under

star viewing
all that was
telescoped into the present
yet to be

in the fog
along the river
another voice

by moonlight
a candle unveiling

morning sky
horizon to horizon
cold porridge

by autumn light
the flicker of child fingers
shadow dancing beads . . .
a mayfly upon the stream
your words ripple through silence

suburban dawn . . .
a treadmill quickens
with purpose

star gazing
the downward spiral
into her eyes

this light!
my chest expansion
of darkness

dark sky . . .
a godhead in me

new moon . . .
the void in me
yields to it

early bird . . .
the whole universe twists
in a wormhole

black hole
not seen by

the ancients
so still the shadows
between stars