On the Cusp of the Marsh
No sound -- ripples careen across
the canal's water, a clack of duckwings
freighting the air, fighting for lift:
an arrow disrupted by a rifle's bark.
No sound -- the wires that weave the levels
together susurrate, static electrics
woven from atoms at the world's end,
charging in steps to streets and hearths.
No sound -- beyond the unyielding Wall
waves furl and surge, froth and collapse;
the shingle chatter a shadowy chant
to the deep lower of lorries, cars.
No sound can breach her bloodied ears.
A sun has banished the sourcerous mist:
ochre on blue, it bloats the sky.
No sound, no smell; no sight, no touch --
a newborn woman walks from the dawn.
No sound -- ripples careen across
the canal's water, a clack of duckwings
freighting the air, fighting for lift:
an arrow disrupted by a rifle's bark.
No sound -- the wires that weave the levels
together susurrate, static electrics
woven from atoms at the world's end,
charging in steps to streets and hearths.
No sound -- beyond the unyielding Wall
waves furl and surge, froth and collapse;
the shingle chatter a shadowy chant
to the deep lower of lorries, cars.
No sound can breach her bloodied ears.
A sun has banished the sourcerous mist:
ochre on blue, it bloats the sky.
No sound, no smell; no sight, no touch --
a newborn woman walks from the dawn.
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