The Sacred Heart of the Garden
With a turtle dove at rest on a shoulder,
a pilgrim wandered, seeking the garden
heart. Then ambling around the outer ring
he sent the winged one on such a quest.
Bird alighted on the Buddha
who raised a silent flower.
She fluttered to The Well where
bubbling over stones, a Bethesda
angel troubled the story waters.
To the white rose angel of lost children
whose spirits wander ever the paths.
Little Way Chapel intoned Theresa’s vision.
Let this presence settle into your bones.
Where oh where? Was the centre within Celtic cross,
icon art – Christ Buddha embracing, or the world
in the lap of a Babushka child in Mary’s lap?
In the mystic symbols of a Baraka shrine?
Or somewhere beneath a crescent Mecca moon
intoning the ninety nine names of the Divine?
In the lit seven cup candle stick, the menorah,
the cosmos in Krishna’s throat, in Brahman’s breath?
A thatched cottage named of Benedict’s cave
where the Saint composed a trellis for faith,
a copy earthed in the foundation? But where?
Was it Rumi’s rustic doorway where worlds meet,
the labyrinth, the spiral still point, willow or oak?
Tanden energy, two fingers below the belly,
the axis in qigong and tai chi? Bell, alcove,
seed, bud, duckpond, fount, a handful of soil?
Within the charitable Caritas chorus of books?
In poems that festival the branches in spring?
After all nightday circling, the turtle dove
descended with an olive branch in her beak
to whisper the secret in the pilgrim’s inner ear.
It pulses here as an infinite sphere whose centre
is everywhere, whose circumference nowhere.