Moments of Vision

(photo by Roxana).

Tree, moon, sun rain.
When all was one.
Tree, moon, sun, rain.
When you were mine.

Light falling on a tree takes on its dark structure, illuminates a pattern, is opened up by it; or a tree, done with its ingazing, flows to the moon, grows in lightness. A moment of vision is born of solitude but, like a series of ripples in a pond, reaches out in an ever-expanding series of concentric circles. "One" meets "one". One on one. Rain and the sea are one. And the sea is one. Distinctions suggest indistinctions.

Outside William Morris' house.

The shimmering light on a slow, dark stream. The dull gold is broken up, fragmented, by the stream into a number of smaller circles, then stars, then points of white light and finally they disappear into the hidden depths....and then the sun is reconfigured, as if all of the points were gathered up together again in a loving embrace...and this process of flux and stillness repeats itself, endlessly, eternally. Perhaps it is the ceaseless movement of the stream that allows such an image to form in my mind; it is hard to know what keeps the sensations together otherwise. Without constant change it is doubtful whether there would be a reflection at all. Or perhaps it is the other way around, perhaps we only see the ripples of light and the passing of time because of the permanent presence of the sun?

Or perhaps it is something more mysterious altogether..my desire for it to be so. Without that longing could there ever be rapture? The image is not nothing, nor is it a mere floating dream in a floating world; black suns exist. But they are not the sun.

By evening the sun will have started to fade and the stream return to being a shadow, a black hieroglyph of time. Without its illumination the stream is nothing but a memory, a thing that exists only in the mind as a possibility, empty, narrow, and alone.