Phil Isherwood
Collected sounds, a story found,
assembled voices, words
that weave a way to journey’s end
by threads of all that’s heard.
Along the hedgerows children laugh,
the noisy boys on stage
play their war with made-up guns
as real worlds burn with rage.
Again I hear the footsteps come,
to mark and make the ways,
music folds and folds the time.
Today it plays, it plays
as violin, the woods in France,
souvenirs from halls,
conversations, murmurs, shouts,
a glockenspiel, the squalls
of birds, the cattle sheds.
Doors scrape to close. A key.
There’s a voice that makes a plea
to sing, to ‘sing for me’.
Collected sounds, a story found,
assembled voices, words
that weave a way to journey’s end
by threads of all that’s heard.
THE BOLTON REVIEW 