The spring song of a great tit halted my winter walk; the next day he was there again, marking out his territory so early in the year. Then the incessant cooing of doves on our rimy roof, interrupting my morning ablutions. Though it’s cold outside and my heart is playing the blues there are signs, signs of something new, much more than mere signs of an early spring which nature corresponds.
Something is stirring Winter birds are singing spring They sense what’s coming
That was the year that was — I present it to the flames of purification, scrying the images for sign and portent of brave futures unknown. Outside, nature’s nudity tears at my soul, this cold dawn of realisation, the privation of my heart, lost somewhere between the sky, that vast horizon where a glacial sun greets, sole testament to the day.
Last year’s summation I’m sifting wheat from the chaff Using discernment
I hang out the washing, impatiently pegging to save time. Then I sit, fritter and daydream, watching the wind toss the duvet of my sleepless night, pillow cases bellow in panic attack, before the sudden lashing rain insists I scamper outside.
Elements changing Thrashing meandering thoughts Nature’s clue unsaid
I follow you, my Buddha in the being, born to fame and luxury, subject to loss and tragedy. You lead a life of example,
of peace and patience. I judge you by what is done, not by what you say, though such few words have meaning
Better a good man Rather than one who is great I can follow you
I wish we could agree. Our difference of opinion enflames the things unsaid. So we skirt around the issue whilst I remained perplexed: Whatever happened to your
rebellious youth? And why am I the radical?
Brainwashed opinion Open mindedness thrown out Worn out paradigm