journal of a writing man
Work in Progress
On a cold morning
On a cold morning, long ago,
I thought I caught the taste of Zen
deep in the tarry depths of Lapsang Souchong.
It could be I was right, had nearly found it. Perhaps
the butterfly wing of life really was in my grasp.
But the joy of bed-warm skin claimed me, and I forgot it.
Today I enjoyed another mug of the pine-smoked tea
and it could be that Zen was in there. Or maybe not.
The morning was cold enough.
John Bailey
Lincolnshire, December 2004
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