Near Goonhilly Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

the night sound of the sea
in my tent fills three sides
you can hear the legions seethe
but in my mind is a dried up
river bed where lies something
not quite dead
go, discover
in rough drops
left on the spines of leaves
tiny jewels that twinkle
between distant boomings
as those unseen in a bedroom
box made of velveteen
its the glitter you cant ignore
that calls you to take Music
by the hand and together
stumble to the edge where
there lie pools of sound
that wait to be stirred
I fear
waking
after an unseasoned sleep
that went on for years
and left me without ears