The garden at Adhisthana is a bit *age of sensibility*
Middle class white men eating biscuits and tea
It’s an “English garden”, with sunken pond;
Sangharakshita would’ve sat happily here, his hair donned

Time to loosen up the Apollonian hold
Let Vajrapani’s wild mane unfold!
Do what makes Buddhism subversive
Release the mind’s grip on reality immersion

Why so many linear paths and ornamentation 
if the Buddhist aim is to shed a light on delusion?
i.e. not divide the garden up into discrete flower beds
But unleash a river of colour: yellows, purples, reds

I appreciate the path under a trellis of leaves:
a ritualistic structure, a wreath
Yet it’s constructed, of human hand
What excites me more is hieroglyphs *within* the land

A mirage of scree, on a mountain fell
The spiral on a snail shell
The script of roots in river clay
Lichens mapping time in quiet grey

Let the wildflower meadows encroach on the country house
Let the fox inside, welcome the mouse!
The Woodcock blasts its praise to the creator
Its garbling is unfiltered, uncatered

A different being wanders before my inward sight;
I glimpse her by a stream, at twilight
Lesley Dean; cycles and circles unfurled
Myrtle-scented, a nymph of the world

Like Persephone, moving through death into bloom
Holding creation and dissolution in one womb
In Berlin you spoke of wild Nature to me;
And taught me the nature of reality quietly