DHRUPAD 11 (august night)
The hollow hills resounding.
The resounding hollow hills,
Knee-deep in starlight,
Knee-deep in patient oaks,
And the white cries of the fox
And the stretched white cries of owls
And our sleeping souls rising like smoke
Through open windows on this warm night,
Weightless, free of thought now,
Flicking through centuries
As the ashes’ fingers fall and drift
And the berries ripen, sun-polished.
And the dead (who are always with us)
Watch and ripen, remembering old hymns
In an old language, and the music of quiet gossip
And the food of woodsmoke and pipe tobacco
And the too short, long evenings
And the too short, oblivious nights.
Carded and spun these days of commotion,
Made a single yarn end to end,
A story with familiar patterns,
With certain purpose, worthwhile
And righteous, worthy of some eternal reward,
Surely, surely.
—
simonhlilly 
You’ve been producing some very nice poetry lately.
It comes out, regardless. We all like different tunes at different times. I find I cannot safely evaluate what is produced – so many factors involved in the mystery of pleasure. So it all gets chucked here for others to rifle through, like skinny kids on toxic waste dumps.
Well, keep it up. I’ll have to ponder that last simile. But definitely don’t stop now.
Leaves me longing for those “too short, long evenings”. For the crackle of a fire, and for the isolation of wooded hills. Beautiful imagery, very well done. And of course like any good poetry, makes you want to write your own. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you, Danny. We continue the endeavour to poison the world with beauty, infect minds with sonorous rhythms, spread the disease of art…