In the chinese gardens
where streams strain dark cold autumn rain,
a white-faced bird escapes over slippery stones
and I, watching, fall headlong,
lie prone on the perfect patterns below the willows
Looking up, I see a change in the sky:
a ruined castle, narrow alleys and ancient graves –
Advent lurks in the chaotic hills and crescents,
in the waves driven across the cunning causeway:
something is certainly coming
I need to rise, but there is mud on my clothes
and I am not ready
An angel passes:
I am lifted to my feet
by the wind from his wings
Should I be afraid?
Am I ready for peace?
Is that a star shining through the clouds
or the end of life as we know it?
A blast of brightness bathes the hill:
I have to decide
> A poem written about ten years ago after an incident in Scarborough