The winter-stunted grass
lies flat beneath the winds of change
and music flows
like driving rain
to the edge of the sea
consuming me.
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.