by Cliff Beck.
My skin, nose and eyes
sense trillions of photo-electric stimuli
which my mind will
synthesise and simplify
to create blue skies,
warm bread; every experience
that fills my head with memories,
generating thoughts,
intuitions and future visions.
But the more I think
the more separated, more complicated I become
sat in my attic
where truth is more academic than axiomatic.
Winter nights.
I hear the geese on the loch
as they converse around the clock
but unlike the city that never sleeps
they muse on weather lore and news of predators,
rather than play misleading charades
to amuse obfuscate and confuse.
In the wee small hours I feel Calliope’s scorn
as I too abuse the muse to amuse
by solving cryptic crossword clues
which distracts and deceives,
allowing me to deny that
life’s illusions bring attendant pain
with every ephemeral gain.
Rain and hail clatter on the skylights
like bullets aimed to shatter
the thought forms
that cocoon me from the cut and thrust
of the journey from ashes to dust.
Between the showers a moment of light
when a flight of whooper swans
chatter amongst themselves as they fly by.
Are they coming here
or en route to Iceland?
I still have much to understand.
Blue skies.
Swallows arrive in swoops and dives;
a joyful sight that prompts despairing sighs
when they nest in the shed.
I shut the door to stop them crapping on the floor
but re-open it later
and it stays that way for ever more
as I muse on consequences,
realising they cannot be ignored.
Early summer heat.
A swarm of honey bees comes in a low hum
which gathers density and intensity
as it hovers nearby before moving on;
a teeming multitude living as one,
prompting me to muse on the nature of self.
Late in coming, fewer in number
butterflies bobble and wobble around
the buddleia bush as I watch a tractor
spraying endless acres of ground.
I try to rationalise the contradiction;
science versus empathy and intuition.
On the decking;
amused, thinking, watching
but not seeing or being
until the swallows turn my head
as they come and go from the shed
and I see the humble bumble bees
explore my scabious and sweet peas
inviting me to muse on the wider meaning of being.
The sparrows in the bird boxes are wary,
wondering if I’m benign
so their comings and goings depend on mine
until the spur of parental care makes them dare.
They see me see them see me.
Then we look beyond each other’s eyes
to realisation and liberation,
feeling our lives entwine yet simplify
with no need to muse on why.