In Silence

Rung to some deeper tune,
you turn towards the landscape,
and the wind, which is my fingertips,
lifts you awa
y.
Here perfume, dreamt or spent,
olibanum, sandalwood, clary sage,
or the damp musk of woodland
caressing our dancing fee
t.
And now I twist and turn, tussle-headed,
to hear the cry of gull or howl of wolf
or the chitter-chatter of mountain-stream deep within the crag:
whirlpool, eddy, drip and drop and gurg
le.
Deeper and deeper,
to touch which is to hold,
an oblivion where everything is forgotten,
or what is remembered is only for the momen
t.
These, then, are markers indelibly scored,
the cartography of dreams
wherein the map describes a journey already made,
spread out before us long after the knowing,
laid out in the grove where we too lie, suffuse
d.
Ah me, ah my, tell me a story.'
This is one.'
Then I need say no more,
for what there is to say has been said before.
In silence there is great verse