Flower
A singular swirl of colour in the deep of mind, red on white, on black. Nowt else. Being flower, the beauty of it.
Mystic red pervades my inner sense, as honey to a hungry ant.
In an old basket hanging from a tree down by the holed water tank, the flower blooms.
While one part dies from lack another part grows from need.
Life and death, not so far apart. One a threshold to the other.
Form, the tightrope we walk. Till we realise, there is no net.
Falling, letting go, giving up. Till there is no fear.
To nothing, no thing, to sense, but be.
As I always am. Inevitably.
Copyright Reserved / Mark Berkery
Nature's Place 
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