An unsung song shimmering on the air
A tinkling just outside of hearing
Tinged with urgency or despair.
It comes on the wind, a gentle whisper
Or a jumble of lines storming through
At times soft sidestep canter
Or full blown verse hullabaloo
It sweeps in, a rush, a flood
An earthquake of urgent matter;
Or hangs about like a nagging stutter,
A relentless gnawing in my blood.
Words cluster like tumble weeds
Around an emotional whirlwind of seeds
Sprouting, prodding, kicking to get out
And unburden this wrung-out heart
It fans out a melody – the brush of a wing,
or some nebula, cloudy from the start
Spells out dull hours of phrasing
Where the mind gets a good sorting out.
ART: Walter Crane (1845–1915), Neptune’s Horses (1892), oil on canvas, Neue Pinakothek, Munich, Germany. Wikimedia Commons.