The images cut to the core. Orpheus limping from the hole
of hell to sing. Or Christ slumped on a cross

screaming at the silence of his god. Or a red fox running
through bent bracken

 as night drops. Or my own birth sign: two antinomian fish
 locked in a jagged tidal stream -

 that geometric counterpoint. These are my icons where endings
 are beginnings, where the country of despair

borders the frontier of possibility. But above all,
one image from my childhood:

the water lily at the centre of the kitchen-garden pond,
its long stem slowly winding down

and down into a bed of slime – and what moves me
is its mauve bud opening out into the sun,

disclosing its many petals one by one, hieratic and exact:
forgotten chakra in the skull.11_journey.html