Always, there are voices that come,
unchecked
as the sound of water, lapping
in the stone basin of the night fountain
Some magnanimous, as the sound
of father digging potatoes,
or mother shouting you in for supper
Some unnamed, as the recently dead,
who come, when you least expect,
to bring you moonstone and memory
Always, there are voices that come
from the trunks of trees,
and their voices are always most troubled
Now distant, as siblings, old friends
Norfolk Hawker
Southern Damselfly
