GOD'S SILENCE Poem by M. T. C. Cronin

for Jack Gilbert


The fog in these mountains
is a reminder
of how far up our feet are
when they are on the ground.
As the baby has aged
she has taken up wrestling
with my breast.
As if the milk had bones.
The gorge is like owning something
frightening, merging with the self
what won't sustain life.
The stars' odour.
The man who felt so keenly
that all around him hearts broke
like the tears of a young girl
for an animal.
Occasionally you hear the gunshot
and yellow-headed birds
with the fan of their wings
spin fear into beauty.
The children don't remember the city.
Its expensive horizon.
Here, they listen to a history
of sing-song in the rain.
Here, where God never says anything.