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The Speechless Sing

  • Hesitation

    She hesitated.

    “Is that …?

    “What?”

    “The place? - where … you know?”

    He paused,

    “Could be, I suppose”

    “But how?”

    “Imagine, standing there - terrified”

    She shivered …

    “No, don't think about it”

    “But we must - comply”

    He walked to the edge, spread his arms and span hard into the air.

    She hesitated.

    “Is that …?”

    “What?”

    “The move? - that … you know?”

    He landed - hard, unbalanced

    “Can’t be”

    “Why not?”

    “Imagine, landing here - alone”

    She shivered …

    “Can’t think about it”

    “Don’t think, just fly”

    She walks unhesitatingly, spreads arms and leaps, tucks, rolls, flies towards golden entry.

    We shivered, yet rose without hesitation acclaiming perfection. 

  • Waiting

     

    It’s late. Too quiet. They wait, watch, wonder from where victory will come. 

    In the darkness a fox slinks through the hedgerows seeking easy prey; and still they wait. 

    In the starlight an owl lifts into the air, patrolling field-lines. Still, they watch.

    Then a murmur, a motion, a snapped twig, a brushed bush, a relaxing laugh - easy prey coming on.

    Watchers emerge from shadows, lift from hedgerows, spring the trap and catch thin air. No comment, closing ranks, clever briefs, courts triumphant.

    They’ll come again.

    So still, they wait.

  • Silent Garden

    In the silent garden,

    we stood with graves laid out

    as if disbelief could turn back time.

     

    Sometimes, silence is all we have to express ourselves;

    awed, astonished, ashamed, ashen,

    silent as the grave.

     

    In the hushed corner plot,

    woeful folk quietly plant raised beds

    as if peace could descend with new blooms.

     

    Sometimes, silence sings collusions victory dance;

    soft, scented, scared, scarred,

    hushed with inaction.

     

    In the secret terrace, 

    weans play a raucous hide ’n seek

    as if solemn tongues could break into laughter.

     

    Sometimes silence is the comma, as life explodes -

    caught, caressed, carried, carved,

    gleeful Easter’s fête.

     

    In festival garden,

    world-weary ones feast on merriment,

    as if lament will be heard no more.

     

    Sometimes, silence proclaims extravagant garlands,

    plaited, pretty, presented, pricey 

    fanfare of rebirth.

     

    Craig Muir  March 2017

    This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

    I wanted to write something that viewed Jesus’ burial site as a garden - as that would be the natural place for Mary to meet with “the Gardener”  But I found myself imagining a park where different activities go on alongside one another and yet still told a story that takes a community from despair to delight.

    In one corner is a burial area, - so often there is little to be said  after the formal words - we say little but are reluctant to move away.

    in another corner people are gardening - finding some healing in doing so - but it also contrasts the way silence can be companionable with the times when our failure to speak out colludes with injustice.

    In another corner the children (heard but not seen) play (weans is not a natural world for me but it allows the part rhyme of we/wo/we/wo to begin each second line) children really allow life to remain quiet for long - they are the reminder to us that life goes on - that so many moments that seem like a full stop - are really just a comma, as the story unfolds. (And couldn't resist the homophone of fête with fate) 

    In another corner, it’s time to party, parade, feast, festival - Easter time!