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The silence streams,
Winding its way down blind canals,
Quenching screams behind closed doors.
There’s always a whisper that worms its way through
And from that I believe that all the knowledge in my mind has emerged,
Caught in hushes
Swept among the rushes
And places I wasn’t supposed to be,
My person forged from wrong doing and mishap.
I would like to believe that I remember ignorance,
Sweet and open, I would not tremble with folded arms along a tightrope
Because once I reached an end, far down the M50 or old country roads
The ground would be secure and I would be warm.
But being the child of the magpie
I could not bury my attraction for the fool’s gold,
Each glimmering nugget baring on my bony back,
Each secret more information than I could enfold in my wings.
I still notice the silence swirling along the brook,
Louder now in spring, with twisted phone lines coiled around my fingers
Dipping their tips to match the tincture of my quiet sorrows –
Hues of every cool shade fit to float away but stuck,
The kind waters will not do me the courtesy of sinking these,
Stuck in my throat I do not need the waves to drown me,
The silence itself is enough to cease my creaking chest.