From This Light

That delicate flame –
eternity –
is falling, slanting, on this light. From this garden, so composed;
from this shadow.
Eternity lifts its latch onto time
and, there in it, objects
are magnetised.
They sink themselves in deeper,
and it holds them, then renders them back like this:
very clear, full,
abundant. Breezy, brim-ful of their own sunny selves,
their festival glory,
deep space.
Solid and separate,
they bring places,
time and space together, those neat little gardens,
so that we can feel them fully. Like perfectly-placed stones
in a garden. Like time’s blueprint,
overlaid on a temple.
A doorway, a seat,
the sea.
The very old, deep
of a wall. The slim lines,
all pointing into it.
The tamarind tree stands, glowing
through the dark.
The water-jug lets stream
the water’s own sound, of the sun.
And his hands; warm, firm; the night, tangible,
night vast and brimming over, a profound river-flow,
his intimate, deep