If it had roots, the pulling-out would be easy, but, being rhizome, it tangles its way far, far out, as though sending emissaries, ambassadors; but which way do they travel? Do they depart or return? The beginning hides sneekily under soil, like a power-line, a waterpipe, some subterranean transport network, while the visible growth burstsContinue reading “Meditation”

After Rosemary Dobson

Worn, I long for the simplicity of desert, for Abba Poemen’s knee to rest my sleeping head. I call to heart the peace of silent communion, of neighbour and myself in essential speech. But mind is Baroque in its impulse. Chiaroscuro in substance, it curlicues toward ceilings, rhizomatic and elaborate, frantic in its downward andContinue reading “After Rosemary Dobson”

“With pen in hand”

The fact that a work of such unperturbed objectivity and such deep, radiating peace could grow from a life which, far from being untroubled, consumed itself in strife, gives us an insight into the special quality of the man. (Josef Pieper, The Silence of St Thomas) The branch is not the root system. When youContinue reading ““With pen in hand””


Your mind’s a rhizome and your head’s at sea. Stray flotsam, jetsam drift in it; its roots Run deeper than the ocean bed and shoots Burst out of it, this way and that. The key To tracing thoughts back to their unity Lies not in system or in sticking boots Into the wildness of yourContinue reading “Sonnet”