Along the cut, dawn sips the cup of night.

Day sounds lie silent.  Ears become eyes.

At this magic hour you may hear mist creep

and the flutter of your thoughts taking flight.

The splashy chatter of leaking lock gates.

The calls of waking birds cackle of a duck.

The mewing of gulls, the squawk of pheasants,

a cock calls the sun, still hidden in night.

 

A scatter of rain rattles treetops.

Wind hisses in a wheat field, rush beds creek.

Plop of fish feeding; whine of insect wings.

Cool air, fragrances of moss and mown hay.

The muted music of the night hums.

Motorways pause in their noisy madness.

Distant trains mutter then fade to nothing;

a slash of yellow on a dark canvas.

 

The breeze tells of cattle in a near by field.

Smoke from a cottage chimney talks of tea

and milking time; clatter of hob nailed boots.

Soon steel churns will ring; a warm white harvest.

The time machine of stars whirls silently,

sharing their ancient light with those who see.

Enjoy this noisy silence while you may.

Soon small sounds will drown in the light of day.

 

 

David Garlick, England, September ,1997