Monday, 16 April 2012

call and answer

it came as a storm on the edge of something 
a plough through the field, and the farmhand's gone running 
and the cedars are a-shaking like men at their judgement 
bowing to the howl as the dust churns about them 

but where is your sound? 

ruthless, and cackling, and swept across the grassland 
the fire comes burning and screaming like a madman 
and the ground is a-trembling and split apart at the seams 
carving a chasm and groaning in the shudder 

but where is your sound? 

restless, my face is wrapped up like a widow 
gazing from the mouth of the cave, open window 
and quiet as the land relenting its fury 
your song is as silent as the heart it is stirring 

and there is your sound.

Wednesday, 4 April 2012

meditations in an emergency

"now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.
the country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.
it may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? and if I do,
perhaps I am myself again."