Here a poem which resonates with me today. It’s two days after a dear Buddhist Sangha friend, Brenda Birchenough died. ‘The Deer’ speaks of sitting with the dying which I’ve been doing for the past week. And before that there has been anticipation. Dear Brenda has spread her wings and taken off into the bright light of the ‘sun’. This short piece below came in an email which fits the moment perfectly.
I now have the impression of them (parents) having moved on and out into huge, sunlit spaces. I think of dragonflies, that spend years crawling in the mud at the bottom of a pond, and then one day just leave it all behind, climbing a stalk into the air; split their skins, and emerge winged, to take off into the sun. All the old life completely past and done.
The Deer
January. Empty days.
The deer, hidden among the trees,
don’t come out any more
to look for the cold, fallen apples on her lawn.
She lies there, not moving;
only her lips, only her hands –
two snails wanting water,
two dry leaves, hardly stirred by her breath.
Over the lawn, the rain,
a cobweb in the uncertain light,
and last autumn’s apples, never picked.
She lies there, not speaking;
only, Water
only, It hurts
only, Leave me now
And the deer, in the early dawn,
don’t come looking for her fruit.
They hide among the trees,
while she dreams, and dreams,
through falling threads of rain,
of ancient summers rich with apples,
and her hands freighted with gold.
By Mark Rowan
Very sorry to hear of Brenda’s death. The poem is something to be savoured
Glad you like it Tom. Speaks doesn’t it.
Ifthis is the same Brenda, at tea one day there were seven lay members and one last cream cracker.
She tapped it and then there were seven equal pieces.
In gassho
Mike Adam
You kidding me? I know you are not however that’s an incredible thing to witness.
I think that poem is so tender and so apt. Thank you. V xx
Yes, I am so grateful to the author of the poem. He is a brilliant photographer too.
Dear Brenda charming charismatic and full of a certain truth.I can see her sorting out the last cream cracker…its a lovely poem
In Gassho
Mark