Poem By Jerry Pike
Tonight I am old.
Listening to that beautiful silence.
It storms inside thought bubbles,
waiting for nothing to break it free.
Climbing bed spreads,
light foot in slippers,
tip-toeing over sleepers,
and sighing in Braille
on their warmth.
Listen to it bounce off the yellow walls,
falling feather-edged between carpet pile,
sucking itself into textures.
Welded inside pipes,
wedged in empty cupboards and drawers.
It fills vast packing cases of past,
soaked in loft ash,
floating in seas of insulation.
Listen to its mimed cry,
hear me, hear me,
I am so scarce, selling my wares,
inside this damp cloud,
beneath cool, tight bark.
Below bog-earth and
under flat moon water.
Listen to me,
I am as loud as any
I just call from the past.
Silence rips itself free
and darts mischievously between whispers,
cudgelling those plodding footsteps
to a beaten breath
So why make noise.