POETRY
      Henry Gould — '#3 : The Old Swingset'

Walk with me through the jungle, whispered the voice.
The silence seethed with malice. Bluebirds fled
to the Appalachians. It seemed he was quite dead
to the world (asleep, perhaps). He had no choice

but to rise to the occasion - otherwise.
There were jays in the trees, and twirling
vireos; there were empty sounds, hurling
hurly-burly Death into his eyes;

and the hollow tock-tock of the woodpecker
presaged a resolution at the crossroad
(if he could find that mysterious crossroad).
Nature was judgement. Truth - very particular

(you might say). In other words, the jungle
was a torture chamber of misunderstanding -
everything got everything else. Wrong
(suffering the sum of all that wrangling).

Back, forth, back, forth... the old swingset
swung so calmly in the morning green.
Do you remember how it whispered, then?
Creaked and whispered, like a crooning pet

or paradisal tourniquet. Sound was sound :
what more is there to say? or might be said,
she murmured (in an undertone) - and led
you down the inarticulate and droning

trail. And so it was. The jungle thunderclouds
boomed and passed - the sky grew grey, grew light.
Symphonic morning (slow Sibelius) : from night
to day, processional (with cloud-parades).