This evening the air is pure liquid golden
Burnished brilliant with a pulsing resonance,
Vibrating in its own particular brand of magic.
Barely a breath of wind d the old sycamore
As tentative shadows ripple across the fields
Tinted lustrous green with deep orange hues.
A flat horizon empty sea beyond the slate roofs
Flecked by darker steel blue grey shards
As wind- waves serrate its surface tension.
Everything attending to its time to be, as it is.
No bell tolls in mournful atonal calling,
Without effort breath flows in and out
Only now meditation begins its uncoiling spiral.
The long shivering call of unseen curlews
Stretches time into a faint pink glow whilst
Reaching into the dissolving infinity of heaven.
Two crows rise into view in a pale liquid sky
Before they, without sound, cut separate paths.
Another aspect of Being comes to stillness
Becoming absorbed deeper and deeper into landscape.
Attenuated until the point of mergence
Duality fades into the endless tumble of rebirth –
As the Sun slips the rim of a rain shadowed hill.
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