Soft summer sounds and sparrow chirp
murmuration of a voice and fleeting cloud,
unfathomed blue, space upon distant solace,
so moves the afternoon apace.
Insistent tapping, harsh metallic sound
reverberates, the world's at work,
siesta past, the silence cleaved
the birches are yet barely leaved.
Let silence be the way and no digression
stir the mind from higher sleeps -
contemplate upon the bracken slope
whether it's death, whether it's hope.
The silent room interweaves
creative light with solitude of sky
immeasurable, not understood at all
I sit and beat upon a wall.
But is it hope or desolation's end
that waits when passage past is done?
The wake astern my craft is streaked with sodden straws.
Do I weep or laugh?