A song sung by the house dust.
A song to the spider’s laborious thread.
A song in the tread of the emperor’s carriage.
The mother weeping
over dishes in a kitchen melodrama –
she hears it, clearly.
The mercenary, cutting thick necks –
he hears it too.
The song of the blue chord.
The song of December transposed into June.
Of the wrong-headed angel.
Music plays on a stone adze.
It slips beneath the arctic waters.
It sits very quietly at the back of a classroom,
counting its glass beads and saints’ knuckles.
Adjusting its badges and straps.
Accumulating dark knowledge.
You see the heart is an instrument.
The soul is a drum and hand
pounding on the gates of a glassy heaven.
You see. The song is singing itself
in a night-stained doorway.
From out of the roof of your mouth.
A song about razors and cranberries.
A little song about a meteor shower,
about the rise and fall of dew.
The one we all sing, like wind under a rainbow
or chorus of doubt.
About the Author:
Pushcart-nominee Bruce McRae is a Canadian musician with over 700 publications, including Poetry.com and The North American Review. His first book, ‘The So-Called Sonnets’ is available from the Silenced Press website or via Amazon books. To hear his music and view more poems visit his website: http://www.bpmcrae.com, or ‘TheBruceMcRaeChannel’ on Youtube.