Cicadas in heat-torpid orchards
thrum a membrane of pure sound,
absorbing ultra-violet, infra-red and gamma
rays like sponge, transforming energy
to piercing, pulsing dithyramb.
I pause for breath beneath a tree;
the eddies of intensity are like the lethal
undertow to superficial sanity,
an ancient incantation that preceded
Babel's tongues and speech, from winged
creatures that do not fly, but make the groves
ring like a gong. The setting of the sun
will cool their ardour, quell their fervent
song: primordial rhythms of the tragic
choruses in Sophocles, the blind and driven
heartbeat of Euripedes...
August 1997
Cicadas, Ikaria
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2007
Свидетельство о публикации №107101400558
Свидетельство о публикации №107101400558
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