The lone man hearkens to the calm voice,
His expression ajar – as if the draught
On his face were a breath, a friendly breath,
Returning, beyond belief, from time gone by.
The lone man hearkens to the ancient voice
His fathers throughout the ages have heard, clear
And composed, a voice that much like the green
Of the pools and hills deepens at evening.
The lone man knows a voice of shadow,
Caressing, and welling forth in the calm tones
Of a secret spring: intently his eyes closed
He drinks it down, and seems not to have it near him.
It is the voice that, one day, halted the father
Of his father, and each of the dead blood.
A woman’s voice that whispers in secret
On the threshold of home, at the fall of darkness.