David Abbott

Heavy Silence Falls


Heavy silence falls. Blue mist in the trees, becomes the trees. The ground whirls up to meet the sky. Cloud fields, air earth. Starlings rattle in a tree, become the tree, take off. Corduroy dusk. So the story goes and goes. Whistled notes, pinging bells, thick organ pipe blasts, wagons and horses, pottery, rosehips and clematis as a garden wall. Dog woof and bird crack. The blue is everywhere, in a wash, upending orientation. Dog scratch, lorry parp. Somewhere a tinkling harpsichord, somewhere men in a pub singing the round. Oak handle, leather clasp, polished brass, linen, steel, fur, mud. Moss monsters. Calls to worship. Horse whinny, pig crunk, footsteps, car tyres. Here the sound of rain, there the ever muffling mist dampening the ring-clarity of autumn leaves. The king's men, an outlaw stuffed in the bramble. Silver coins. Wheat chaff. Baked bread. The arrow tip of winter through a drafty window. Turpentine. Linseed. Suspended world, russet world, golden wild world – unearth me, full-life me, unseat my curiosity. Roll me headfirst down the valley.

September 30, 2022

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