Poem 120, day 132: Falsely Quiet

Falsely Quiet

 

Surely such a large space should be louder somehow.

Fields stretch like time, pigeons sleep with heads buried in wings,

Cyclists pass like soft cloud.

Noise is lost beneath figures that lie flat and lace their fingers with grass,

The squeal of childhood trapped in swing chains and echoing no further

Than dry fence posts buckled by heat.

In fact everyone talks; dogs yap, twigs break, but you wouldn’t know.

Right now the distance is too great, and all that speaks is movement.

 

~ S L. James

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