When St Columba was near death, the monastery work horse wouldn't leave him..
The sound of hoofbeats leaving a monastery
where all is timed and measured.
You are that rider.
Someone who does not care very much about things
and results, illness and loss, you are the soul
inside the soul that is always travelling.
Mind gathers bait. Personality
carries a grudge. You weave cloth
like the moon leaving no trace on the road.
There is a learning community where the names of God
are talked about and memorized, and there is
another residence where meanings live.
You are on the way from here to there.
Your graceful manner gives colour and fragrance
as creekwater animates the landscape it moves through.
The absolute unknowable appears as spring
and disappears in fall.
Signs come, not the essence signified.
How long will you be a shepherd singlefiling us
in and out of the human barn?
Will I ever see you
as you secretly are in silence?