A Dot Poem by C Richard Miles

Waiting,
at the shelter,
staring down the road,
for the late village bus.
Time stops…
…unaware the woodcutter
is holding up the traffic,
as he chops,
only the white noise
of the clouds in the sky,
moping along,
background music,
echoes of winter,
no song…
…then music
on the five barred stave
of the telephone wire,
strung like guitar strings,
between the bar lines
of the poles,
a semiquaver B flat,
sitting,
in the middle of the stave,
short and squat,
the tiniest note,
not a semiquaver, even,
a demisemiquaver,
or perhaps, smallest of all,
a hemidemisemiquaver
of a bird,
a dot,
furiously piping out,
louder than creation.