The squirrel of Buddha stands stock still and tall.
For a squirrel. She blinks and history unfolds.
Whatever you think should happen does somewhere.
It all comes back, in time, to Buddha’s squirrel.

A mysterious Editor reads back what I write.
I flit between rare visions seeking meaning.
What does the squirrel of Buddha symbolise—
wisdom, stillness? Answers go unheard.

I see a warm plate heaped with scrambled eggs
cooked in so much butter that the whole room glistens.
I eat until I am sated and beyond.
Somnolence returns as arteries clog.

‘With his arms and shoulders folded like a bat’s.
he sleeps, a gut tube trailed by knot-kneed legs.’
‘Surely “not” or “knocked”,’ says Editor. I stay
my quick reply. Tomorrow I’ll revise.

The squirrel intones, ‘They were excitable. They died.
They were alive and vile a century ago
until the year of our Lord 1915.’
The watchful jackdaw asks me, ‘When was that?’