What makes you the way you are, laggard, sweep, umpire, tight-lipped, ears keening for the sounds of your children’s voices deep underground? Up here with the trees, roots pointed like toes, sighing away the centuries. What doesn’t have a sister darkness? A place you should never go?
Big shoes to fill, he of the blue eyes and nut brown skin, counting his knuckles for sums and pawing for change. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
The snow a country here. The busy birds. An earnest hand: surrender. But ask the boys and they’ll say it’s a backside smooth as Sunday morning. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
Go. You. Stop. Go. Brake. Dart. Weave. Are. Bolt. Stop. Now. Some. Merge. Where. Fast. Go. Switch. In. Stomp. And. Stomp. Watch. This. Act. Now. Don’t. Think. Go. Town. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
He dreams of water. The sawing of the bow and her skirts alive, salt on the tongue. CLICK ON THE RECORDING
Fingers on strings pulling the day on and on to the tap-tap of busy shoes. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN