Zen Gardener

I walked past the statue before I realised it was alive. A small, nut-brown old man, in a grey and black kimono. He was staring, through lidded eyes, at a jumble of boulders and sand and pots of moss.

I watched for a while, trying to fathom his purpose, thinking he must be visualising a garden design. Finally, I hurried on, knowing I would be late for my meeting.

The next day, he was still in exactly the same spot, having not moved a muscle, though life appeared to have departed his mortal remains.

For a long time, I contemplated the perfect arrangement of stones, moss and raked sand. I could see a tiger, leading her cubs across a swollen river.