Late Autumn on Paper

 
Between hands, paper and brush, between soul and flying birds
lie shadows drifting in silent transition

White crags, white winds, and figures in the water
splash foam against the boat sides, keeping a sober distance
from the drinkers aboard

Heartbeats beneath the waves ring clear and plain
late autumn, mountains loom high, the moon dwindles faint

Beneath damp heavy curtains, sleepers lost to day and night
bend their knees slightly, bracing against the core of dreams

In woods bathed in crescent moonlight, wanderers returning from revelry
hasten home with hats pressed tight, clinging to lingering warmth

Lost travellers shout across the stream
echoes mimic one another, like a man and his own inner self

Thick mist drips down bamboo leaves
leaning a staff by the water’s edge
weeping eases the ache of the soul, yet silence stretches boundlessly vast

No one may cross its realm, nor add to nor take from its essence
from beneath the hat spill endless lingering doubts

Doves spread wings and fly away
while crows plunge headlong to the ground, upsetting water flasks and gauges

Still some will climb higher peaks through pouring rain
drink deep the darkness of a whole year, and meet pure solitude

When trains rumble past the valley, verses flow unbidden from their lips
heedless of unseen listeners
or swarms of stars swirling before their eyes
Where history lies laid flat
place lamps, letters, and a few worn old garments

Such days are few, the fragrance of roses still lingers amid dust
while heavy frost and shadows settle upon dark treetops