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This must be what light sounds like written down.
A grass concerto played pianissimo but with a fine
panache about it. Mouth music in sign language.
Or when a painter’s doodling quietly with both hands,
each holding a stick of charcoal. Evening prayer
being offered up in silence to the god of gloaming,
a believer might say.
The two moths rose as if afraid of being wet by dew.
Wing-beats outnumbered twists of roadside grasses.
They could be text inside the speech bubbles
of a cartoon about your rebel ancestors who used
to live hereabouts. What on earth are they still
trying to say? Floating epitaphs—take a few home
to choose from later.
Click on the poem title to read the next excerpted poem from The Camphill Wren.