Through the voice, the soul's work is done.
Janet Baker
Cragflower. Music of the sea.
The flower still standing
in its tormented place.
Morning full of voices. Mourning too.
Mahalia singing On My Way
and making it to Cay-nen Land.
On a rock, sit, listen to Bjorling
sing Only a Rose
over your friend's ashes.
Chaffinch on the clothesline—
rosy biscuit breast aglow—
will any minute
confirm himself in song.
And listen,
the thin single note
of the sandpiper in lakedusk:
beige and bright white,
precise bill opening, closing:
only the one note
but enough to cut across
the whole valley
as a nightwind shakes
the stiff green reeds to whispering.
Pain, even a single grain of it
anywhere in the body
is a kind of stop and focus,
turning us to pure attention,
as may happen
with some small invisible
winged thing singing in the thick of hedges.
Eamon Grennan
| 
Comentários
Enviar um comentário