Does the wind have any idea
how utterly pure it seems to the ear
as it swoops across Delos coldly, cleanly,
courier from the ionosphere?
In arcs of clarity, charged air
purges impure energies,
scanning down to the bone,
liberating synergies from besieging stasis
as violinists' fingers tease
untrammelled notes from captive strings.
The wind embodies impulse
as an instrument warps time through form,
tuning invisible wires to faint
transmissions from the stratosphere,
audible as internalised murmur,
the blood-lullaby that the unborn hear,
voices of stars to the dying dream,
the seeker of catharsis.
Ionosphere
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105030500296
Свидетельство о публикации №105030500296
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