I heard a woman sing-
voice precariously balanced on strings,
plucked by fingers, timed by feet,
clad in saffron robes, but still
able to think. In the distance
silence blooms, like a mango orchard
in a university. A bearded man follows,
barefeet. His ancient dwellings not haunted by
but preserving such music, such poetry,
the banyan trees live and breathe,
sounds made by feet that are bare and solitary.
A eucalyptus clearing filled
with voices and dancing feet, sunset colours
matching their clothes, the songs they sing
about meeting ancient spirits in the midst
of winter trees, and in your heart
you are singing.
December 2017.
