Journey To The Amitobha Buddha, Forres Poem by Sheena Blackhall

A fox lay on the tarmac,
Back curled like a hen's feather,
Foraging paws stopped in their urgent tracks.
Dead on a full belly -
Snapped like a twig by a quick car,
A punch bag thudded onto the cat's eyes.

His delicate pointed face was bright with dew.
Round a narrow bend the road stretched wide;
Autumn burned in flames,
Where an eagle guzzled the wine of a stilled hare,
His raptor's feathers flounced like a grandee's ruff,
His great beak skinning the fur.

Under dripping shrubs,
Through webs of trees, leaves fluttered down like snow.

Journey's end.
A house of stairs and hush
Where Amitobha sat, the sunset Buddha
Above two peacock plumes, framed by a window
Holding day's dead fires.
Flowers in his hand, warm candles at his feet,
The shrine-cloth coiled beneath in folds of blood.

And then, the muffled drum-beat of a tabor,
The mantra like a pulse, lub-lub, lub-lub.
An owl rose from silent woods,
Opened his wings and scattered stars like jewels.