A white woman practices tai chi earnestly.
Her movements are precise.
She bends deeply, flexible and strong.
Her face contorts in concentration.
She studies with an honoured master.
A calligrapher sets up his materials
A brush, a pot of water, the path
His movements flow like his water
As he dances his ephemeral poetry.
The student sits on a rock.
Head on her knees, unmoving.
This is not her master’s meditation.
It is exhaustion. Despair. Grief.
She is thin, hair shorn, clothes black.
A stranger offers her a pot of yogurt.
And the woman smiles.
The poet observes his student
As she practices her fluid movements
Bent double over the path
He paints characters and watches with pride
As she copies his words elegantly.
Sarah Bonnar 