At the end of an exhausting day, the sudden pleasure of finding a long-awaited book of poems in your mailbox, bringing it inside, cuddling with it, like sitting with a friend by the fire.
Listening with your eyes, time stands still. All weariness wears off - you are just pleasantly tired.
Music after the flood
in the hills and mountains.
As spring comes a young bull
bellows in a high green field.
You stop and listen.
And the other sounds -
the mew of two buzzards up above,
the drumming of water down
over rock slab over rock slab,
my voice talking to myself.
Listening, waiting, drifting
into that space beyond words.
Forgot what I meant to say.
My hands before my eyes.
It can happen. Clear and bright.
from 'Talking Bab-Ilu" in Lee Harwood, Collected Poems (Exeter: Shearsman Books, 2004).
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