Silence Poem by Nicholas Green

It paints the walls white
It is the sheets pulled back
It is table lamp dust
And a kitchen waiting

It coats the land like frost
It is the beauty of water
It is crockery washed
And the state of vertical

It works like enamel
It is condensation
It is Sunday on a wall
And safe hesitation

It stabs relationships
It is inside the outside
It is better than speaking
And worse than anything

It questions the question
It is hands after labour
It is found in old drawers
And is the perfect answer

It finds haven in branches
It is where thought is kept
It is clothes after bodies
And the patience of a room

It breaks day on a streetlight
It is the right size for birdsong
It is a kettle long since boiled
And a cupboard full of empty

I cannot hear your silence
You cannot hear my silence
No one can hear anything but silence
That is my music, my music

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