How little they take from life
how much they give
a few worms from your soil
and in return each
summer dusk they fill with music
more endlessly inventive
than a hundred Bachs and Beethovens
in black tie coats and tails
little conductors atop your aerials
chimneys mapping out smokeless signals
an entire town staked out in hundred-metre grid
of sentinels, transmitters and receivers
flying spies, Morse code men
and mating Mata Haris.
Listen, look. Behind them now
the sunset grows and blushes
pale sky gradated blue grey to fawn
lenticular and nimbus clouds
building to a feathery crescendo
on which tree branches writhe
in polyphonic textures trumpet flowers still glowing
brimming full of brassy sun they’ve drunk
in seesawing motion of cello bows
May’s blossoms fall on evening airs
to kiss the jumbled roofs of gentle suburbia
beneath each of which a table lamp comes on
tree shadows nod and wave across wallpaper
a half-heard word is spoken, shared, a magazine
opened or closed the last car rumbles home
the birds hold forth the whole town theirs
unchallenged save for this audience of one
who walks tolerated through their four-dimensional
labyrinth of sound, marveling, wondering:
just who is in charge here.

This entry was posted in Art, Music, Poetry, Psychology, Uncategorized, Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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