by Jon Hamp

She softly speaks.
And we listen.
The cows eat the hedge.

Insects hum a symphony
of the high beams,
held above us by silence,
and words add new strength to old structure,
as carers and uncaring,
and broken and mended,
are safely gathered in.

And our collective breath builds an organ
within this good curve of good earth.
Towards our dome of branches.
And frail as string,
a blackbird picks a tune.

So may shells at our feet,
below those waves of grass,
whisper our stories back.

As cows eat hedge, insects hum, and the blackbird picks a tune.