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Being Utterly Modern
There you are
gazing into the water
as it coils around the pier,
hoping to decipher
its tidal language, divine
a message in the slow lift
and fall of the swell,
the soft lapping sound echoing
through the dark shadows
below.
But whatever is here
seems to have withdrawn
deeper into itself, far beyond
where your senses can reach
or your uprooted mind can go,
severed as it is
from the origins
of its own creation.
You are of this age,
utterly modern,
purged of myth
and deaf to the spirits that once
moved here in the water
and roamed the land,
the sung sagas
of your ancestors.
In the isolation
of this cleared world
a terrible silence has fallen
in which the only sound
now is your own pulse
imprisoned in the confines
of an ear.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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