Friday, January 14, 2011


Image borrowed by Bing


Out of a wood
birds black as jet
one at a time
like beads on a string -
an invisible string -
like notes on a stave.

There must be a hand
a baton
a man
behind what I see
and sounds of a theme
I'm unable to hear.

It's deep in the woods -
double bass and all that -
but over the fields
they rise with eclat.
Then piccolos scatter.
Percussion of guns.

Each motif repeats
understated the change
the woodwinds take hold
(Well they would
would they not?),
clarinets and bassoons.

The high flying beats -
staccato of wings -
introduce a new thought
the woodpecker
pecks at
from out in the wings.

The clash of ideas
emotions and sounds
reaches crescendo
moves me to tears.
It's there in the score
for those who can't hear.

But even in silence
the brain can read sounds
and metaphors peep
through a forest of notes
whilst the birds of the air
sing our babies to sleep.

David King

Posted over on his site Pics and Poems
Listed as #81 over on Magpie Tales 48

1 comment:

Dave King said...

I am lost for words. Thank you for posting this, I regard it as a huge compliment.