Saturday, 27 July 2013

dear barbara, in my new apartment, spending time with a clock

1 comment:

  1. Lyrebirds

    Over the west side of the mountain,
    that’s lyrebird country.
    I could go down there, they say, in the early morning,
    and I’d see them, I’d hear them.

    Ten years, and I have never gone.
    I’ll never go.
    I’ll never see the lyrebirds -
    the few, the shy, the fabulous,
    the dying poets.

    I should see them, if I lay there in the dew:
    first a single movement
    like a waterdrop falling, then stillness,
    then a brown head, brown eyes,
    a splendid bird, bearing
    like a crest the symbol of his art,
    the high symmetrical shape of the perfect lyre.
    I should hear that master practising his art.

    No, I have never gone.
    Some things ought to be left secret, alone;
    some things – birds like walking fables –
    ought to inhabit nowhere but the reverence of the heart.

    Judith Wright