I’ll Never Leave

The voice of denial shouts its strident call
along the line of Commissioners’ Flat
reminding us we are not free. A motorbike
howled into life, tore the silence recklessly,
yowled into a seamless distance. Quiet returns,
not a quiet that rests easily – sound burns
in the edges of sleep’s soft echoes.

In the night I can hear the trees rustle their
indignation, a koel cries it’s mournful cry, a
call to the world, I am here, come to me!
I sigh – I am awake, I will arise and greet the
day. How many times have I seen the sun
rise a pastel glow over the Orchard? I
know the peace of trees emerging from

depthless dark, the definition of constancy
of mind – a cogent sanity I could not
trade at any price. I speak those words
into the dawn, an assurance whispered
to the trees, offered as a pledge to the
sweet and warm woman sleeping,
I’ll never leave.
© I.D. Carswell 2007-01-24