Harry Bird
Name Harry Bramwell Bird
Endings.
"Listen to me" he said
"and if you listen carefully
between the sounds,
words
I have not spoken,
songs I have not sung,
silent passing of air,
time,
sensing".
She tried so hard
but there were only noises.
Wings beating air.
Heart crying for time.
Passing voices.
Once,
in the beginning,
she had heard,
sighing in empty rooms,
music from empty stages.
She had touched,
held, danced
to the entering of him.
Sometimes,
she remembered
how it was.
Soon,
when he is too far away
in the cracks between the windrush
she will hear
his silence
Harry Bramwell Bird
Invitation to the dance
Come soon, come now my golden girl.
Come join me in the dying day
and dance with me at my command
till stars applaud and light our way.
When light rides high and dew is gone
the noon bends low the creaking Yew.
As day grows older, lingering like
an unloved guest, I cry for you.
What song proud lady shall I sing
to melt the veil from your sweet charms,
to animate your frozen smile
and draw you to my waiting arms?
Will it require orchestral storm
of elemental sound to set you free,
release you from your private world
of dreams, and make you dance with me?
Or, should I sing you songs of love,
of Summer dreams and golden days?
Will such soft sounds unlock the doors
and grant me access to your ways?
Come soon, come soon my only love
for I will surely find the way
to make you see, to make you feel
the magic of the waking day.
For we could ride each silver dawn
through endless years, come now be mine
and I will sing you mornings lit
with marigolds and Summer wine.
The colours of our universe
will guide our way and you will be
my love for all eternity.
If you will only...
dance with me.
Harry Bramwell Bird
Islands
Within my hollow spaces
Stars are born.
I will see them form.
I will see them die.
This universe
This soundless place
Will be for me
Eternity
The wandering shadows
As they pass
Voice wordless meanings,
Reach out to me
And are forgotten.
For they have no place
In my world,
Only theirs.
I alone exist.
No one touches,
No one feels.
The passing time
The beating heart
The restless stirring
Deep within.
In my imagination,
I have lived
I have loved
I have joined them at their play
But this can never be.
For in this inner dark
They can not see.
Though I project
The images they watch,
Paint the pictures,
Generate the sounds and
Write the stories,
They will only see
The outside of the screen
The back projector
Will be me.
All The Women
With hollow eye he searched
her secret places,
The reasons for her being,
the ghosts that lay
beneath the soundless echoes
of her past.
Haunting him with longing.
He saw,
in her still image,
The laughter
of lost times long dead to dust
which once she lit
with firm legged skirt.
The music of her joy.
The ever eager,
lustful spinning
of a girl
born of fields,
running with wolves.
Haunting long the Summers sweet
with honey bell
and hay.
Soaring ever upward to
tomorrow's light.
These are the things he saw
but deep beyond,
her brown and troubled eye
he found
the Winters of her life.
The deep and twisted shadows
where her phantoms hid.
The cold-boned hands
fishing through her years.
And in the stillness of her soul,
forgotten rhythms
of her loves.
Too late now to mend
for she is not the one
they knew.
But in the hunger of his need
he felt her touch
and softly called her name.
Warming his heart in her eyes,
resting soft between her lips,
Ramping his emotion
in her arms,
sweetening his life
in her freshness,
Finding in his love
all the women
that she was.
