Orange blossom golden and white
falling from tight lipped flowers
their fragrance is hidden in the song
of a tumbling stream.
Neither wind nor water
nor dancing clouds that dodge
the candle holding mountains
could be more kind to Dai Tung Tzai.
A shy girl brings us scented tea
by the little stone bridge that jumps the stream
orange blossom for our delight
water to wash in from a bamboo pipe.
The stupa on the outcrop
sat mute and still
beyond its shadow the silent waters of the bay
and a green peaked mountain far away.
A woman sang in the bamboo grove
the wooden fish tapped pop pop pop pop
cool summer eve
telling of Buddha, of peace, of the void
and the bamboo breeze sighed and sighed
Koon yam poussa.