Making Noise. Poem by Alistair Plint

The mist settles
That African sun warms through the
crisp, winter breath;
the season smells
fresh
clean
pure

Between the daily noises
lights, mobile phones
bicycles, motorbikes, cars
and trucks

There rests a silence
that birds hear
before they whisper
mating call songs
to the leaves of wise trees
and lost evergreens

There's a dose of the
medicinal
in that quiet moment
that rests inside us
like a pillow
waiting
on a bed
for nightfall
-while the sheets sleep

Preparing for a
morning alarm
and
wake-up-call


-x-