The Quiet

Blackbird slips under the netting to steal blueberries,
barely a breath of floating dust motes move the air,
comfrey flowers droop in the haze.

Sun slides over the garden, grass crisp and browning
in the heat. My cells are dying, unseen. Even the hairs
of my head are counted down without a sound.

There is no need to speak of these things, or the way
we held hands sleeping in the dawn-light, silence
does not change what the day holds and unfolds.

Penelope Hewlett 

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Penelope Hewlett would be pleased to hear them.