DARK MUSIC
© and written by:
Diane Taylor
from A SCOUNDREL BREEZE
They've given me this bell to ring
in case,
well, just in case. Its metal burns
bitter in my hand. I'd love to whisper-shoe
my way down to the creek but if I stand
they're sure to stop whatever they are doing
and run to see if everything's alright.
They mean no harm. I know, they mean no harm.
My sister's roses, fat with sun,
purr softly up the trellis by this
porch.
I touch a petal clumsily, tracing scented veins.
Now, if this rose were mine, I'd leave it for the bees
but Mama likes to cut them for bouquets.
They give an old house grace, she says.
I wouldn't know.
Tractors growl the air.
The haying crew will need refreshment soon.
Too restless for the kitchen work,
they sent me to the fields last year
clinking gallon jars of lemonade and tea.
I ache for the sensuous swing and stretch
of muscles oiled with sun.
I crave the salty trickle in my eyes.
The husky perfume of ripe grasses
weaves through this vined shade
like a cat through morning dew.
I’ve dropped the bell.
Ancient Delilah starts from her hound’s dream.
Her head is grizzled bone beneath my hand.
I know a place where the creek sings low
and a willow leans down to hear.
I used to crack the trout-swift water’s bones
and rhyme lies until they became truth
in shade like green watered silk beneath that tree.
I shared my poetry, just once, with Jason Reed
but he sneered my sonnets and I stoned him home.
They let me have my pick of April foals.
I chose the measled Appaloosa . She was
the hue of thunder and the dark mist in my eyes
allowed her to be more mine than the
fire-gold colts I would never see.
One honeysuckled night, I slipped down to the river,
guided by a rascal breeze and knowledge of the path.
The horses were there, between rock-muscled bluffs
and froggy shoals and I wove poetry to keep them safe.
Knee-deep, dew -starred pasture grasses,
Cricket-heavy, whippoorwilled,
Where small quail, in silent masses,
Hide until the owls have killed.
Red fox passes, sleek and nimble.
Far away, a mourning dove
Calls my name and branches tremble.
Is it wind or is it love?
Appaloosa mustang’s daughter
Sniffs the moon’s reflected wheel
In the shallow, wrinkled water.
Two moons shining. Which is real?
Palomino stallion sees me;
Lifts his head and whistles low.
Moonlit river music frees me -
Steals my soul, then lets me go
Mama put my tablet away when I
could no longer see to stay between the lines.
Papa sent off for a booklet about Braille that afternoon.
John Less found him crying in the barn.
What should it matter if I can no longer
march my letters correctly across a blue-veined page?!
How do I tell them, make them understand
that loss of light is only loss of light;
that words and rhythms still silver in my mind
like Meadowlarks exploding into sky?
They’ve given me this bell to ring,
in case
Diane Taylor
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