So, I come back, Akshobhya

The Stourbridge house is empty and everyone is about to take their leave of friends before heading off to Birkenhead, Lancaster and Leeds. There will only be a short time to receive the furniture in Orkney before rushing back to the start of teaching. Not very satisfactory, but there is no alternative to a snatched week perhaps in November and then a family Christmas on the island. After that ... Easter and then, if plans go right, at least a year up there for me, to do some writing and dig the garden. Slowly back into meditation, and the Akshobhya rupa, the thawing out and realignment of body and breathing from the physical cramp and tension of unavoidable but petty tasks, the sense of vastness all around, not noticed except when this silence falls.

So, I come back, Akshobhya,
And sit as you do, still
Graceful, your bare right arm
Reaches down, cool hand
Touches the earth I stray from
In fugues of lust and business
Still, I gaze at your image, again
Stare, a little stupidly
Coming round
As it were from a drugged sleep
To half-assembled consciousness
Wondering why I did this
Or do it now
Swaying unfocused on my knees
Like a bad Catholic who staggers to Mass
From the pub, hearing the priest
Through the muffle of microphone and ale
Mutters the responses late
Gets up, sits down, kneels
Not quite on cue, asserts
In the confession of his sins
His florid right to be there
Weeping for tenderness and passion