- Vol. 09
- Chapter 05
RURAL HOURS
Bone dry.
It’s all of no consequence.
A wayward smile
is the only lingering
selfconsciousness.
Imagine ―
A hummingbird is spelling out
all the words with her fluttering wings,
while another one quietly looks on,
puzzled, but glad.
Half-heartedly
the winter light glows,
sibilant, cold, regally remote,
cherishing a mock Latin ending,
classical, a palimpsest;
whereas
fleeing mothers weep,
and their frightened children ―
they refuse to speak.
The hummingbird is wrong:
Please! Please don’t say “rural”,
it’s spelled B – R – U – T– A – L ...
RURAL HOURS
Bombs
being dropped
like grammatical mistakes,
the whole page is wrong.
“Rural hours” has a silent H,
but the innocent have no sleep,
as God has changed shape.
New York!
O New York is so, so far away!
Here in no man’s land: there’s
no more museum, no more opera house;
even the hummingbirds have left,
taking away all the honey from their nests.
Rural hours no one is able to keep,
as mourning will never cease,
and weddings no longer blessed ―
until mothers’ tears have revitalised
the scorched homeland,
and sunflower seeds can germinate again.