IX  THE HERMIT

THE HERMIT'S NIGHT
swirling, the first snow reclaims land from cottagers
who watch the jagged "V" of migrating geese
as they follow their leader, instinctively wise.
the ground is damp & cold, the wind & stinging leaves
lash the lake. bears prowl the high night meadows.
nothing is ours anymore: the waves are teeth of steel.

& on forbidding autumn nights
through swampy rushes, the hermit shines his way:
his hood peaks snugly on his head,
his lantern wavers in his hand,
an old old man he is, fearless of the elements.

the lantern, like a smooth & perfect stone
radiating spikes of light
is multiplied by darkness manifold:
across miles of marsh it flickers, strong.

& on such haunted autumn nights
when the fire jolts & sparks
& settling logs startle us from armchair sleep,
we may dare to steal a glance outside

& sometimes glimpse that moving cloak
gliding towards the forest's dark,
& with a brief but mighty shudder may descry
the cloak as the tiger's lightest stripe,
the lantern gleaming like the tiger's eye

while to other windows the hermit's steps remain
subliminal: rustling wind or unseen animal.

THE HERMIT’S WHEEL

I know without revealing the
truth of the tiger.
I reveal without knowing
the truth of the tiger.

The hermit & the wheel of fortune
                        are the tightrope
                        across the abyss –
            they are the path
                        between the lion’s jaws,
            they are the koan
                        leaping.

The hermit rides the waterwheel
                        & like a circus seal he balances
                        the round world on his nose.
            He turns with the wheel
                        in the wildly splashing water,
                        & is never wet
                        & is never upside down.
The descent
            is never twice the same,
his balancing posture
            is never twice the same,
                        but with each turn
                        he stands in triumph
                        upon the ascending wheel.

Turning inward, the hermit dreams
            of a herd of tigers
                        all chasing their tails,
            of a wildflower’s centre
                        & its autumn seed,
            of the sun in the sky
                        travelling west to east,
            & the dew the moon leaves
                        on the flowers,
            of a leaf with a picture in it
                        of a deep reflecting pool
                        whose waters ripple
                        until he jumps…

& in that splash lies
            a moment’s world
            without the wheel.

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