The canal runs straight through the middle of things--
Not fast, not still.
The water is brown
reflecting the sun in broken pieces…
...
I stand where gold remembers prayer,
where quiet climbs the edges of the sky.
The temple does not speak--
it listens… and so do I.
...
It's early;
The temple roofs are quiet,
Clouds cross the sky,
slow enough to notice.
...
I write poems from quiet moments in everyday life. I pay attention to small things, still places and moments that slow me down. Faith is part of my work but I keep it gentle and unspoken.)
Midday By The Canal
The canal runs straight through the middle of things--
Not fast, not still.
The water is brown
reflecting the sun in broken pieces…
Red roofs line the canal,
warm from the sun.
The colour has faded unevenly,
not the same shade twice along the line.
Trees hang over the canal,
The leaves move slightly.
Shade falls across the water
and ends there.
Across the canal, houses stand,
Windows open,
They remain.
Nothing calls for attention.
No moment asks to be kept.
The day continues as it should
and I stand here long enough
until I feel it move on its own.