Commuter Mysticism

Damp Wednesday morning, seven o’clock,
the sun not up, nor looked to be;
the park a triangle of nothing
bisected by the pale path, trimmed
on each edge with lights
and pallid rags of early daffodils.
I walk. Bin men, cyclists,
ghosts in washed out yellow,
pass me, smiling. Two cars, then silence.

The secret holiness of streetlamps,
quivering amber in the mist,
lighted windows, bus route boards -
whose destinations glow, picked out in gems:
Merrow - Kingston
Bushy Hill -
and whirling flames on dustbin trucks:

Earth is afire today, and every breath
absorbs the sacred. Above, a sudden
blackbird.

Truth becomes real; dull illusions
I live between fold flat; more
dimensions leap into being, and I,
startled by sharp joy, can tell my gratitude
only in tears, and think how strange
to weep in wonder, where, bare
days ago I wept in desolation.

They stand close, close as to touch,
but never meet,
and both dissolve, and flow
in salt water.