You called me again last night, thick still pool on the moor
you called me by the mournful pipes and sickly yellow light drawn by your bow
By your neck thrown back, the rowan thrust back in the autumn wind
the sheep strands snagged in the brambles barbs
and the cracked dust of ewe bones
thrown against the velvet moss
Draw me back to all beginnings.
before the start.
the still thick black oil stillness
smothers the yearning from whence our journeys stem
slip o’er the rim, and trace the silver line, secret in the bog
and sound the words from in hidden chambers
run down your throat and chest and curve and slide
to draw your secret parts in sound through all the sweet air
Thus the Siren’s song begins
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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.
This is an attempt to capture part of it......
Anthony Dalby
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/siren-s-song/
