Beneath
Beneath the morning’s silent listening
an evening’s bells are wringing hands.
Under this ancient lakebed marshes sing
sad arpeggios. The mountains ring,
unseen, forgotten, vast expanse of sand.
Small creatures in the grass are listening
to how the harrier’s thrust of wing
propels her gliding on an ample
wind just inches overhead. Blackbird sings,
watches the harrier land. In everything
there is an underside, an other hand,
something to which we are not listening.
In every turn of phrase there is a ping
of something tarnished, something contraband
we do not hear. But as I watch the willet sing
in flight, and catch the pattern on her wings
seen only from below, two vivid bands
of black and white, the morning is silent. Listening,
I hear the ancient lakebed marshes sing.
Beneath the morning’s silent listening
an evening’s bells are wringing hands.
Under this ancient lakebed marshes sing
sad arpeggios. The mountains ring,
unseen, forgotten, vast expanse of sand.
Small creatures in the grass are listening
to how the harrier’s thrust of wing
propels her gliding on an ample
wind just inches overhead. Blackbird sings,
watches the harrier land. In everything
there is an underside, an other hand,
something to which we are not listening.
In every turn of phrase there is a ping
of something tarnished, something contraband
we do not hear. But as I watch the willet sing
in flight, and catch the pattern on her wings
seen only from below, two vivid bands
of black and white, the morning is silent. Listening,
I hear the ancient lakebed marshes sing.
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(c) Karen McPherson
Skein of Light Airlie Press, 2014 |
