Voices of the dead poets
sealed in the silent sound.
The consonants and vowels of the dead
living their lives.
The poets still alive,
their voices in the caskets.
The newlyweds already bound to part.
Black holes of pauses, a silent, starless night,
regaining consciousness after the rustling blank.
The British "R" reverberating on the verge,
then casting lines, reflecting the moonscape.
A thin, old girl, a bird, twitching muscle,
her hidden rhythm is a hilly country road.
The Nordic alien, an old Hellenic hero
still mumbling his eternal echo rhymes.
A farmer's voice, November brittle ice,
wind in the treetops, a stone against the stone.
A tone of time, that sounds for itself.
The voice is dead only when air is gone.
These are the sounds of the limestone landscape,
of old lighthouse beam,
of undercurrent stream,
a sound of stone
against the stone.