I brought silence in
and sat it where I could watch closely
as I shone my light between its eyes.
Good cop, bad cop had been tried
and never drew a confession
or disturbed its thin lipped confidence.
Perhaps if I reminisce
the soft recall of mundanities
might vibrate some hidden heart string
in the blue shadow of the evening?
Or is it a catatonic spell
to be broken by the old remedy,
one hair at a time plucked from calf, knee and thigh?
Or should I just wait
for the pressure to grow until
words burst from fissures I cannot see
and cover my wounds with music?
It offers no help
but opens its arms to the passing
flight of the blackbird in full alarm,
to the flock of white doves that circle
with shared purpose on grey Winter mornings,
to the stir of ivy leaves
in the day’s shallow breathing.