Even before I see him, I know that he has entered my studio, his arrival heralded by the Bush of damp night air door opens and closes. I do not interrupt my exercise to greet him, but continue to world and swing my blade. In the wide mirror I can see detective frost watching in fascination as I enact the chant of the Saber. Today I feel strong, my arms and my legs as limber as when I was young. Each of my moves each turn, each s***h, is dictated by a line from the ancient sonnet:
Up the seven stars to ride the tiger.
So ring, turning,
dajing aspirants or,
to become the white crane,
spreading its wings as it thrusts out a leg.
The wind blows,
the Lotus flower trembles.
All the moves are second nature to me, one blending into the next. I do not have to think about them, because
