In The Beginning..
Words bent to prayer
And bent to slaughter
(A willow woven, hazel bent
Sturdy, slight vessel folded to itself).
Sounds imprisoned
And sounds emboldened,
The revolution of meanings.
Howling words that bite bone,
Whistle through rock, a melting wind.
Gaseous, methane bubbles rising,
Of things rotted down, forgot,
Recycling weightless vapour
From a deepest mind of mud.
Not mine, not thine,
Suckled in time and savoured
For the very sound of themselves.
They will neither be hunted nor chivied.
They may be shorn, dyed even,
But remain stubborn, feeding only
On the green thin skin of the earth.
Herd and flock, making mock
Of each desire to eloquence,
They will (most likely) only settle
Where silence is, when attention
Is elsewhere, in wasted moments
Where careless scattered seed is overlooked.
These words wash up on longer waves,
Rolled together out of reach,
Worn and riddled, broken shells,
Tumbled, tide-swelled
Moon-pulled
Meaning.
simonhlilly 