Koans

In the grey gravel garden,
four disconsolate rocks
play out their silent pavan.

Stunted isles; pinched dreams
from static seas. Whose touch
does their numbness crave?

Kick of white horse?
Stroke of salted spray?
They have my pity,

when shirt sleeves drip
with Atlantic dreams.
Every sweetened bead of sweat -

a spell. How could I forget,
there are two worlds here,
and only through infant eyes

may the mind depart its moorings,
blow clear of the belvedere.
It was your sixth sense

that gave rise to the seventh time;
Streamed two thousand feet of stone.
Dissolved Vestmanna's cloaks.