Why does no one hear what I can hear in my mind?
Sounds of lost childhood that echoes & tightly
binds,
Noises that curl around the heart & settles
in the soul,
Filling voids of the past & yet still leaves
gaping hole.
The crowing of roosters cracking the ice of
new morn,
Braying of mules off to the mines before crack
of dawn,
The trundling of trams over cobbles, old, cold
& grey,
And the haunting funnels wailing in the mists
of the bay.
Those sun cracking pods in the summer wheaten
fields,
Of Thor´s chariot as he spits & his lightening
whip wields,
Raindrops on tin roof, snow-white-crisp &
new crunching,
New baked bread chewed & in silence heard
munching.
Mama, in the silent mists of time, calling out
my name,
That hop-along-cane of papa´s leg, slow, clumsy
& lame,
Those midnight fraught barkings of my faithful
old dog,
And the hooting of old owls as they perch on
barn logs.
Why does no one else hear what I hear deep down
inside?
In the rebounding places where I go when I cower
& hide,
My mindful sirens of old echoes in that very
far away land,
Where my childhood & I walk together, hand
in sweet hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment