When I was four,
My mother reminded me
That little children were liked more
When they were silent.
And I wondered for many years after
What she meant.
(‘silence’ – complete absence of sound.)
She smiled at me when I made no sound,
Revelling in her new found ‘silence’
While I wondered how she could miss
The faint pitter patter
Of a leaky sink faucet
That with every second invalidated
Any absence of sound.
She sighed in content
At the ‘silence’ at her table
When we ate,
While I wondered how she could miss
The tinkling of cutlery
The sound of my fathers breath
That with every clink and swallow
Invalidated the absence of sound.
She and her silences
The ones I heard
As the wind rustled the honeysuckle
That crept up quietly on the iron gate,
Or the indistinct ticking of the clock
While she read her morning newspaper
The swishing of the tide against the beach
That left worn, frosted sea glass in her stead
Which made her inexplicably happy
While I for the life of me could not tell
How something so absent could be heard
Only when she dropped a pin
On a well worn wooden floor.