Kata Beach

Kata Beach

Kata Beach

Could it be
the hills have learned patience
enough to lie lightly on the sea,
not to cling, instead to make their touch
complete with emptiness, as a dancer’s hand
will train the air to wait, will borrow beauty just
for a while, then, wiser than the thieves who tried
to steal the moonlight, throw it back.

Could it be
the fishing boat
has netted peace:
red, white and weathered,
it’s sitting on its haunches like amusement,
as motor scooters pass it by with noise and speed.

Could it be
as simple as the Buddhist monk’s instruction:
while the mangy kitten stretched itself,
hair by hair, along a careless stroke of sunlight,
while a hazy green untied the room and trees
until the mind had lost its hold,
while his loose arms moved easily, as pity might,
asking ignorance to put its power down,
while his hand, attentive, touched his glass
as if to keep its water cool, while his eyes
were opening suddenly corridors calm with bronze,
he said a single word: ‘Impermanence’.
And laughed. It sounded like a shell
breaking.

Could it be:
the clear-hearted sea.