It Sings
A poem
I am not myself
But a chasm yawning wide beside my path,
Dark and ever gnawing at the sky.
Above, a soft wind blows,
Trembling the leaves.
Now someone speaks — but who?
A face emerges from the musky darkness,
Almost recognisable.
In its gaze,
I am not myself, but a shadow
Cast on rough ground
By the moon.
Somewhere nearby an owl is hooting,
As real as real can be,
While the things I know how to say are all make-believe.
For I am not myself
But a night without a dawn,
A shape without edges,
A voice without a sound.
Under my feet
Multitudes of tiny creatures live their lives
And die their deaths –
But who is counting?
Who does all of this concern?
The one looking out of my eyes
Is a stranger to days and nights,
No-one’s creation.
He rides the turning earth
While I break shells in search of meaning.
Even now moss grows and spreads,
Covering stones and bark and soil
Without anyone’s consent.
This earth is alive, yes, and its life is our life,
Its death our death.
And yet, who of us is really here?
Strange.
Out of the yawning chasm,
Dark as night,
Climbs a future which no-one is prepared for.
Monstrous in its broken wholeness,
It sings.
