Friday, August 3, 2007


The hum from the distant dual carriageway
Has settled in my ears
Like a thin film of wax.
It paints crude pictures in my dreams
And greases down my hair.
A plane bound for New York or Athens
Buzzes behind a cloud.
A lawnmower somewhere hammers out
Its rheumy rhythm
As birds chatter excitedly.

Where would I find true silence?
In the desert? On the ice-cap?
Maybe only in death.
Would I even hear it if it bellowed down my ear
Through a foghorn?

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