Yesterday I thought I might find a poem for Paul Milataru’s magical photograph. A sonnet of sorts.
Quiet, except for the clamour in my head,
the chirruping of sharp-beaked nagging
that competes with oriole music.
Still, except for the restless waves of anxiety, mimicking
the gentle swaying of boughs, and the clouds that drift
at a relentless pace across the unforgiving sky.
Peace, except in the world beyond the hedge, in almost
every heart, and the weight pushes against these barriers
with the force of twisted nature.
How to fight the noise and listen to the music beneath,
to still the turbulent troubled air and let peace fall like
a sunset, a spring shower, a smile in the darkness?
When moonlight leads the way along the lane and the owls cry,
when sloes glow dark as midnight pearls, I see where secrets lie.