Waiting, <br />At the shelter, <br />Staring down the road, <br />For the late village bus. <br />Time stops… <br />…unaware the woodcutter <br />Is holding up the traffic, <br />As he chops, <br />Only the white noise <br />Of the clouds in the sky, <br />Moping along, <br />Background music, <br />Echoes of winter, <br />No song… <br />…then music <br />On the five barred stave <br />Of the telephone wire, <br />Strung like guitar strings, <br />Between the bar lines <br />Of the poles, <br />A semiquaver B flat, <br />Sitting, <br />In the middle of the stave, <br />Short and squat, <br />The tiniest note, <br />Not a semiquaver, even, <br />A demisemiquaver, <br />Or perhaps, smallest of all, <br />A hemidemisemiquaver <br />Of a bird, <br />A dot, <br />Furiously piping out, <br />Louder than creation.<br /><br />C Richard Miles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-dot-2/
