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