Wild Swim

If you feel your soul is drowning
Swim on
To the imagined shore
And the tide will carry,
As it takes all things truly desired,
Purely desired.

And it cannot be turned.

But if you will not dream
Of the paradisaical haven,
Bring it to mind now,
Dream it now,
Live it now,
Then you cannot be saved,
Though you swim on for ever
Against the soul’s own tide.

By Henry Berry

ocean sunset at low tid


Henry Berry lives in a rambling old house in the rural Vale of York, England. His writing focuses on external and interior, mental landscapes inspired by intimate contact with the countryside immediately around his home. His blog can be found at www.henryberry.blogspot.com/

Photo by David Methven Schrader

Dolphins

Let dolphins be happiness.
They’ll do.
We think they’re smiling
But are they
Ecstasy,
Come upon by chance,
Fuelled by curiosity,
Briefly seen by humans,
Beyond conscious summons?
The same fixed grins
Are gone again
In a moment.

By Henry Berry

dolphins in pacific ocean at sunrise. bali, indonesia


Henry Berry lives in a rambling old house in the rural Vale of York, England. His writing focuses on external and interior, mental landscapes inspired by intimate contact with the countryside immediately around his home. His blog can be found at www.henryberry.blogspot.com/

Photo by Nikita Buida

Wren

Is it possible to love a wren?
Must love own its object?
Or seek to own it?
For the wren takes
‘What is hidden is more alluring’
To the n-th degree.
Glimpse here,
Blur there.
Then gone, but not forgotten.
Is it enough
For love to love her wild flight,
Wishing nothing but good
To one going, going, gone,
Without even acknowledging
The looks of love
She is receiving?

By Henry Berry

brown wren hiding in gray branches


Henry Berry lives in a rambling old house in the rural Vale of York, England. His writing focuses on external and interior, mental landscapes inspired by intimate contact with the countryside immediately around his home. His blog can be found at www.henryberry.blogspot.com/

Photo by Rosemarie Kappler

Sparrow

Coming from the dead wood
Where snowdrops issue white
Invitations to a new season
I see the red kite,
Huge and magnificent –
A celebrity, launching.

Later, at home,
A sparrow calls
Beyond the kitchen window.
So what? No one sees you sparrows;
No fans, no twitchers come.
However you aspired,
You’ve grown up one of millions.

I boil a kettle, look again,
And note you’re not half bad.
Surviving, eh?
Well, aren’t we all?
You may be going cheap,
But you wear brown
Beautifully.

By Henry Berry

a juvenile white crowned sparrow perched on a branch


Henry Berry lives in a rambling old house in the rural Vale of York, England. His writing focuses on external and interior, mental landscapes inspired by intimate contact with the countryside immediately around his home. His blog can be found at www.henryberry.blogspot.com/

Photo of a young white crowned sparrow by Christopher Fell

Swan

When will the tension between
The status, grace and wisdom
Above the surface
Become resolved
With the paddling beneath?

Will there be a time,
Will there ever be a time,
When the glide really does come easy,
When the surface, still as mirror,
Reflects the whole soul,

Seen and greeted as for the first time,
Acknowledged in raw beauty, whole, anew?
Will there come a time when
Efforts cease
And consciousness flows as water

Going the easiest route,
Pooling resources,
Oozing through life’s meadows,
Relaxing in ripples
Of self-acceptance?

By Henry Berry

woman in white coat watching white swan


Henry Berry lives in a rambling old house in the rural Vale of York, England. His writing focuses on external and interior, mental landscapes inspired by intimate contact with the countryside immediately around his home. His blog can be found at www.henryberry.blogspot.com/

Photo by Maruna Skoropadska