Nocturnal Volume

It is louder than a lion's roar:
The pitch of a baby's scream.
The father stands, in the door
With dreams of angels in his head
and angels guarding his dreams.
It is plain as a woman's prattle:
The insects buzz a baleful din.
They speak of the heat of the battle;
Of wars to lose and win.
It is quiet as the lull in the storm:
The tender-sweet song of the lark.
Safe in the branches, away from harm;
Singing long into the cold, cold dark.
It is silent as the bending grass:
The snake that writhes in the green,
Biting with the edge of broken glass
Spilling poison vile and mean.
It is the hum of a lover's sigh:
The sleeping cat, thief of baby's breath,
Setting angels in the sky
One second after their ill-fated death.
It is the softing of a passing cloud:
When all is silent in the house
Dark eyes flash up and down,
As waits the scheming mouse.
It is silent as the summer breeze,
The silence of the heat in June.
Over the silence of the wary trees
So sets the heavy moon...

1987