HUM

 

HUM

through grass

this

empty

body

of stories

accumulate

day

by day

some

are called

from deep within

from grass

in breeze

a town

is told

 

HUM

of life

this

silver

speckled blade

of life

tales

– a calling –

sounds

which seem to mean

rest

drift

 

HUM

these

senses click

in

and out

sharp

then soft

this

chestnut stream

of

summer bees

just

out of reach

just

there because

moments

left

                to speak

then

speak

then

gather speech

 

HUM

a sun

full of rain

full

of absence

a

crow talks

tells

its tales

its

other tongue

drifts

on through

the town

drifts

on gentle breeze

on grass stalks

muttering

mumbled

barely heard

 

HUM

 

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