Little BuddhaAnd the Buddha by the pool.My small one, of soap stone.A smooth semblance ofheaven within the mountain.Gentle as a duck featherfloating under the full moon.It saw. We heard. The gorge, wide as protoplasmic Dreaming,listened to all the old wordsseethed open into ancestry.Out of the corner of my eyegreen rushes weaved their dance.Would we leave it there?I was happy enough to let it go,turn my back on a graven image,all for you. As you had sweetly stoodwith the icon of the other shore.Both surrendered by that pool.Later the photos said it all.Watery images. Cloud and warm water swirlsas translucent as the self.As overlapping in time and space.As inclusive, yes.Your hair, your white, blue dress;my shoulders and throat gone floral.And the little Buddha spectre:double-exposed with crocodile.His calm smile in the tail.A row of teeth in his lap.How things happen hardly matters.What swims in time is truewhen you enter a pool with vows. Excerpted from The Inland Sea by Barry Hill All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
