The grounds of Adhisthana,
a little age of sensibility:
tea, biscuits,
voices held in porcelain

An English garden
with sunken pond
Sangharakshita might have sat here,
content in the arrangement of things

Monks tend the magnolia against the wall,
pruning each urge to wander

The gravel path divides;
grass forgets the line
Foxglove fingers press through
lattice reigns

I circumambulate the burial mound
This geometric model
mimics the natural order
obscured to the mind

Raw reality writes
hieroglyphs within the land
The script of roots in river clay
Spiral shells upon sand

The sun sets over English fields,
impressing wisdom into my being

Let the wildflower meadows
encroach on the country house
Welcome in the untamed weasel
To stretch out and unwind by the fire

The Woodcock blasts praise to the creator
Its warbling unfiltered,
expressing the holiness within

I glimpse a nymph at twilight,
her hyperbolic circles swirling
Myrtle-scented,
echoes of nirvana

Like Persephone, moving between
death and bloom,
holding both.

And I remember,
in Berlin,
you spoke of wildness quietly,
as if it were already here