Lost in the bliss of devotion,
Cool perpetual rain falls through the roof over my brain,
Beneath which are placed buckets,  made of Love.

These shall later be used to soften the dry earth for planting.

Clive Bates, 2004

Always, throughout my years,
I was prepared to spend
long hours looking.
Just looking.
Stars, raindrop
on a twig,
a spider’s web,
stripes on a blade of grass,
the seedhead and the bee.
Mountain, leopard, cloud.
Wind and water. Wheat.
Who will do things?
How will they get done
if you’re a dreamer?
If everyone …
So the story ran.
The hours were truant, stolen,
rumoured to be lost.
But still I sought them out,
stubbornly, hungrily.
Now I know
these were the only hours
that were right.
All bustle, bother, wringing
of hands
has blown out of time.
And here I am, still
kneeling by a flower,
steeped
in eternity: home.

Lynne Bryer

(Photograph: pdphoto.org)

The time has come.
At last
This is our time.
It flows
Around and in and through our lives.

This timeless time for which we sought
And struggled in the past and grasped in glimpses.
Promised scenes, arcadias
And “might have beens” dissolve
As we become
Of timelessness a part.

That innocence
That everlasting Now
Is here with us
And we are in the midst
Deep
In the calyx
Of that Heart.

LV

(Photograph courtesy of geocities.com)