The winter-stunted grass
lies flat beneath the winds of change
and music flows
like driving rain
to the edge of the sea
It rolls across the hills
penetrating layers of grey-black clouds
and it is loud…loud….loud
In a landscape of sound.
Like the fluctuating currents
of the never-ending tides
the notes transform
into the wind’s sighs.
Crescendos become the crashing of the waves.
Key changes are the soft white clouds
against metallic greys.
Melodies splash-splatter across the scene
like the yellow gorse flowers
In black-brambled fields.
I sit at the margin of the Now and Then
conscious of a long lost time when
man first knew that the soul can sing
and the song has come
from the sea and the wind.