They are at it again in the garden The hammering of cruel tools The clamoring of rough men Breaking through the fog and gloom Breaking up the cracked sidewalk Home to all the moss and stubborn shoots But this is the concrete jungle, what is there to lose? Surely they will mend what they have broken Plant saplings and seeds and soft flower beds For now they are at it again in the garden Ignoring the bad omens of this haunted place Men seek only to banish the ghosts Not to think of all the lives that came before them They do not care. They say it will be a lovely garden once it is done. People luxuriate in the shade of foliage Sitting careless in their pavilions Thoughtless upon their swings To admire the flowers and birds and other things But people do not think of all the lives that came first Like the parched earth they scoured clean now dying of thirst The kingfisher that goes hungry when men fright away the fish Or the squirrel and her babies fleeing the fallen log When people sit

Once upon a time a tiny spirit came to me Piping up “Flying in the sky so high, what do you see?” “Why, silly child,” I said, “I see the world the same as you. I may be tall and you may be small but your red is my red and my blue is your blue.” “What’s red? What’s blue?” the child inquired with many sorrowful sighs. “Ah, young one, you’ve still much to learn. So here’s a word from the wise: We take the world and give it shape and meaning from our heart And these feelings we call colours, and put together they become art.” “I want to know, to feel, to see all you can see while flying free! So, please, josei, tell me about your colours.” “Let’s begin,” said I, “with that wonderful colour green. On leaves and trees-” “Green? But what IS it? What does it mean?” “Well, green can be the slippery-soft of moss that guides you home. There’s green in the dripping dewdrops when you’re dancing in the gloam. Green is hope, green is hunger, green is always on your tail For one day all that remains

Love. Some say it is like the ocean, full of conflict, full of pain. To them love has become an unmapped portion of unfathomable depths; a wary cartographer would be wise to solemnly place their finger on the lines “Here be demons” and “Here be dragons”. Such are the words of those who have loved and lost to the monsters of the deep to would-be navigators of this strange, watery world. Yet a map-maker who cannot search the world over for their subject is no map-maker at all. One must plumb those same depths to find out where nature ends and wonder begins. Only when one has traversed the stormy seas and deathly calm doldrums does one have a chance of reaching paradise. Love is not something that can be found by blindly groping and flailing around in the dark. It has to be sought out with a navigator’s faith in the sun and stars. Above all, it must be called by its name before it can be traced with the fingers. Then again love can be deceptively shy when it so pleases, darting back into

Oh to be an explorer in some exotic faraway land! Intrepid trekking through jungles! Marching through scorching sand! When you reach the end your gracious host gives you a helping hand! But I’ve no hands to speak of, so hand-holding we must do without. Oh to be lost in the desert just dying for a drink! Practically parched for knowledge! Thirsty every time you think! Anything for that ice-cold cup, fresh as a glacial sink! Though I’ve no mouth, don’t weep for me, there’s enough of a drought. a lone in paradise for gone rains grains gains? ill-gotten for gotten gone run running will run ran away find a way to be alone a gain golden gold/en/d end of paradise too far unsafe unsaved eye of the storm i of the storm swirling spinning golden no end takes takes takes then out worth less less than here more than clear stumbling tripping falling verti go out into the village not a village? step in/to/complete ruin bit by bit brick by brick crumbling clay shifting