The rhythm should not come from the word.
The word is a key to unlock
the virtual library,
where our journeys begin.

The rhythm is elsewhere.
In the space between thought and imagination,
it is the crossing weft of ancient knowledge,
beaten tight against the fell.

What the ear registers, the brain acts upon,
the heart draws in to its own, or not.
What then becomes expressive,
is expressed variously,
in form.

And then, such delight in the connection of things!


Now the sun sparkles
the still-morning garden.

Beyond, just fields away,
the curve of a silent hill.


Just what are such moments?
Do they envelope time?
Can they be measured out in music?

As recollection calibrated
they are the essence of  
seconds’ snapshot-made.

Sequence disappears.
It is just the blink of the mind’s camera.