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              the straight line of stones marking the geometry
                   of death
              settle all their own levels over time to make
                   a new rhythm

              the iron fenced ones –
                   the rust of ages past –
              as the grasses reach up through them like
                   an array of grasses

              the stone-cross ones mottled-old like skin
                   ready to sag
              and the upright stones leaning forward to their various degrees
                   and backward like a child’s forest

              the huge upstart fir tree leans too
                   at a good 70º
              but by the flowing hills behind
                   it doesn’t seem so odd

 

 

 

                                       the church graveyard of St. Edmund’s, Castleton, Derbyshire

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

Castleton wormhole: tag cloud poem IV – C
death wormhole: tag cloud poem V – draft-ness
fir wormhole: across the room / through the patio doors / through the conservatory windows / at the bottom of the garden / the still bifurcated trunk of / the oak / before the let-grown hair and fringes / of the fir tree / blown every lifetime in a while by the winter sun // actually
grass wormhole: the edges of my reach
hills wormhole: emerged
stone wormhole: may the supreme and precious jewel bodhichitta … // … take birth where it has not yet done so … // … where it has taken birth may it not decrease … // … but may it increase infinitely
time wormhole: b / l / u / e / s / at a right-angle

 

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