The scratching cries of
blustering birds.
The tickling breeze that
gently heaves.
The branches sway to keep
the time
Amidst the soft applause
of leaves.
Now comes a dying nasal
whine
And rasping clearing of
the throat.
The cheap-chirp birds and
whisper-leaves
Could not compete with
billy goats.
And if I was to add my
voice
To woodland multitudes,
I’d stay my tongue and
think what noise
I’d splutter forth to
contribute;
What buzzwords, bywords,
hand-me-downs
Would suit the tenor of my
theme;
Or if a loud and bestial
shout
Could wake the forest from
its dream.
The time has come for
artifice
To shed the shadows of the
past;
To build myself from ashen
blocks
And find a new self fit to
last.
So come, you changes,
murder me,
I’ll turn and face the
strange.
Revise and ruin all you
see
Erase it all and set me
free.
