You called me again last night, thick still pool on the moor <br />you called me by the mournful pipes and sickly yellow light drawn by your bow <br /> <br />By your neck thrown back, the rowan thrust back in the autumn wind <br />the sheep strands snagged in the brambles barbs <br />and the cracked dust of ewe bones <br />thrown against the velvet moss <br /> <br />Draw me back to all beginnings. <br />before the start. <br />the still thick black oil stillness <br />smothers the yearning from whence our journeys stem <br />slip o’er the rim, and trace the silver line, secret in the bog <br />and sound the words from in hidden chambers <br />run down your throat and chest and curve and slide <br />to draw your secret parts in sound through all the sweet air <br /> <br />Thus the Siren’s song begins <br /> <br />*************************************************************************** <br /> <br />This probably needs more explanation. This is derived from a Katherine Tickell concert I went to last Friday, and the extrodinary way she draws landscape through her music. In particular the music took me to a dark tarn in the Lake District which I sense is a fountainhead from where poetry stems, but defies being captured in words. <br /> <br />This is an attempt to capture part of it......<br /><br />Anthony Dalby<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/siren-s-song/
