Children Safe in Bed

Nov 19 2017

On a still winter day

on a solitary walk

into dark brooding forest

I stop,

contemplating silence.

But even here

the squeak of cold dry snow

crunching underfoot.

The rush

of my own hot blood

pulsing in my ears.

Frigid air

funnelling through

my dripsniffling nose.

Or pause, chopping wood

sweating in the cold.

The crack of an axe

on seasoned wood

that splits clean and true;

the hollow ring

as pieces land

on a solid concrete pad.

And anarchic thoughts

that ricochet and multiply

despite me,

making their own insistent noise.

A cacophony of voices

out here in the wilderness

as loud as city streets;

demanding attention

yet desperate for rest.

The succession of stars

as darkness deepens

in the silent vacuum of space.

Wood-smoke, curling-up
a roof groaning with snow,

a crackling fire, shedding sparks

and children safe in bed.

But still, the sounds in my head

I am helpless against.

As the body in which I live

does its unseeable work.

As my mind rambles on

its desultory walk

through a still and darkened woods.

As the axe drops

of its own weight

and my hands come up again.

Only the rhythm

of a steady gait

to ground me.

The regular thunk of the axe

keeping body and soul in step.