The Thinking Poet



For me, some places are hallowed ground.

There is a downland track where air is sweeter and empyrean.

As I descend, the welcoming distance enfolds me.

Trees sway and bow in friendly greeting;

Gay are the espaliers in May,

And drench-drunk are bees upon the lime.

Time and the blanched church sleep soundly here.

Like the weed-ragged pond alongside,

All is unruffled, just as I left it last.

Here is no past or future,

Only the poised breath of ever-fresh greeting,

No fleeting of days;

Just a solemn stillness in which the sacrament of "present moment"

Is timelessly performed without priest or server, chant or bell.

Under its spell I join the celebration.