• Newbliss, Ireland


• The later the hour, the more convinced
• I become of voices outside
• traveling
• through the courtyard, the conservatory;


• opulent bass tones of men
• with a woman's brighter chatter.


• Up along the tree canopy
• the phrases linger


• reassembling into light


• branches of laughter.


• Sounds rustling each to each:
• Russian cheers, a Siberian drum beat.


• (They must be soaked to the bone by now.)


• In the tea kettle's mist one small shout


• the timbre closer


• then further away


• across to the other side of the lake.


• Before morning comes,
• before I bend to the blue


• shore and greet the sun



• I scour again the torn cloth of music.

Susan Rich