BALM
I shall cool my mind
Upon the low golden moon
I shall drain my habitual sorrow
Letting it flow earthwards
And rest.
Rounded quietness
The clear roof
Of a star-filled night.
Everything is as it is.
Everything is moving
Towards
A dancing of its own nature.
Sleep and dream and waking,
The blink of day and night-
Vibrations on the rim of
Creation’s bowl.
The rippled liquid,
Concentric pools,
An eye-blink.
Breath from the wing
Of a passing owl.
Polish the mirror,
Breath and sleep.
Frost at dawn
And the new lamb’s
Thin cry.
In the dead elm
Two magpies
Are building a nest,
Ivy clad, bejewelled.
As long as it can
Life will fill
All voids,
Dancing heedless
Over the precipice
Of time,
Disregarding limits,
Floating
As if it were
A garland, a light,
Set adrift
As a blessing
As an asking
Upon one great river
Sedate, curving slow,
Seawards.
simonhlilly 
Simon, I only realized now, your poetry has a certain Whimanesque quality–though where hgis was ground in ‘the passion of America,” yours is a passionate drive to give the land of yours the same qualities through the mystic vibrations of its myths and stories of the land.>KB
Thanks! I sort of know what you mean ( he’s long winded and chant-like often as well, and certainly places his thoughts within the landscape). I find his flow a little difficult. I think it must be a peculiarly American lilt that I can’t easily intuit, somehow. It seems lumpy with unusual rhythm. Maybe I need to persevere with him more, or maybe read him aloud…