Little Buddha And the Buddha by the pool. My small one, of soap stone. A smooth semblance of heaven within the mountain. Gentle as a duck feather floating under the full moon. It saw. We heard. The gorge, wide as protoplasmic Dreaming, listened to all the old words seethed open into ancestry. Out of the corner of my eye green 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 stood with the icon of the other shore. Both surrendered by that pool. Later the photos said it all. Watery images. Cloud and warm water swirls as 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 true when you enter a pool with vows.