on unburnt ground

[fledgist]

 no echo here but silence tightly wound

upon the spindle of the rising year

has its effect on this our unburnt ground

where moths and spider in their turn appear

in pallid sheen with shadows most austere

our voices falter we do not belong

in place or time when memories are strong

 

ears are alert for the first human sound

for that one thing that we might hold most dear

explaining why the quiet is so profound

and why each heart must feel the touch of fear

before new day but nothing will come clear

the birds are sleeping this night will last long

cold hours must pass before we hear their song

 

there's no one present to teach or expound

those complex riddles about which we care

such folk of comfort are never around

when there's a nasty chill upon the air

or complications in the great affair

they simply vanish still if we prolong

our patient waiting dawn will strike the gong

 

some proper answer remains to be found

the process seeming almost cavalier

it being grasped and purposed on rebound

seeming to be the waste of a career

but those who cannot feel have yet to hear

the truth of where they are and we belong

in proper place to right all that went wrong