Friday, August 25, 2006

Email to a friend

Words labour like ants
Across the white space
Carrying their burden of sense
Recording events chosen like fallen crumbs.

The japonica flowers in the window,
Our neighbour had her baby.
This play was seen
And that book read.

Stories ring with laughter
And details sound the rhythm of routine
But you read what is not written
And know that silence is the trumpet of my mind.


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