The last alley

An alley still echoes the moor the heath the poor and the thief

Rich with blackberries, gorse, mountain ash and wild cherry

The longest season this year, eight weeks while

Elsewhere a profusion of plums

Apples galore

White currants still sweet

A moment of thought

Thoughtlessness

And if this was the last year and next year the year to recall the last year?

There were words

Here they are.

Sour Dough

Ordering bread and coffee

Baked by desire

It’s grinding repetition

Skin not an echo

But that glistening same

The bitter Buddha kneaded here

Could not be loved

Without lust

Wisdom’s yeast

Force fatale

Yes Yes

Concentration short

Yes

Pain overwhelms

Yet where no excess and

Eager expectation ends

So ?

It is imagination that arises.