Soft summer sounds and sparrow chirp

murmuration of a voice and fleeting cloud,

unfathomed blue, space upon distant space,

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?