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Poetry

Silence

Rachel Mann

I hear her in the garden
weaving madrigals through marigolds.
Her voice - a flute, tuned to the wind
winding top C around the Rowan tree.

She hangs shirts on the washing line
to arias by Mozart
and pegs out socks
to selections from Oklahoma.

On wet days her soft soprano
steals intermittently across the hedge,
when she steps to the wheelie bin
or scatters bread to starlings.

In ...

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Comments

Elaine Crutchley

This poem captures my own experience of a friend and neighbour who sings madrigals while tending everything from marigolds to mauvaises herbes. It is now me counting the beats as the days tick past to her departure from the home she has lived in for 40 years. We will lose the Bach and the madrigals, but would like to use this poem to celebrate her presence among us. In the magazine I am sure the poet is Sheila Clift so I am email the editorial team to ask permission to use it.

Posted: 08 June 2010