Misty silence
hangs heavy
over the
bruise-blue
morning.
If you had stumbled
across this scene
as some
wandering stranger
and listened to
such a wet hush
with fresh ears,
you’d be forgiven
for thinking
that all is
well here.
But if you knew
this place
intimately
as one knows
the sound
of their own
voice softly
humming,
you’d know
something is
amiss.
For gone
is the cricket song
in the reeds.
Gone is the thrush’s
eerie whistle
in trees.
Gone is the chorus
of bubbling croaks
that leap from
pond-dwelling
bellies
and throats.
Gone,
gone,
gone
is the music
once discordant
and rife.
Gone is
the sunrise
sonata
of life.
pm poetry 