26 August 2012

The Garden

Veiled by muffled strain of radio song,
water fall and garden breeze,
the silence softly speaks.

Sensed in registers we cannot hear,
a high-pitched hum -
   fainter than an insect's buzz,
   more hushed than meadow's crickets.

Curtains dance on breath of Summer.
The silver murmur of a TV screen,
mute but still tuned in,
whispers legends of a royal domain
before our toil began.

All knowing recedes to ether.
You call to us in cool of day.

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