POEM

The March robin song

 signalling my renaissance

 from the last defeated

 renaissance.

No more words 

that shine

 like a prop sun 

on the horizon. 

Ah the beauty 

of the ubi sunt moment.

The beauty 

of a suited-up minister

playing a tuneful recorder

to a beggar in the street.

Goodbye

to the hectoring tone

Of my voice 

at any old stone

lion couchant 

in West End. 

The wooden fish 

that Buddhist monks

Beat during the prayers

Is my life.

Once in many a dream

I hear their Sutra 

enlightening

the many ways

 to the blue Void.

Somewhere in the past

lay all the meaning

of our next soul.