The Voice of the People
Like the inchoate sound of the sea,
a murmur, a whisper, a surging moan rises and ebbs
in a wave of sentient reverence:
a call, cough, cry, a sob stands out,
- in the long shadows of the waning harvest moon
- the chilly blue noon of autumns’ equinox
- when the evenings draw close
in wet, grey streets,
sodium and traffic lights blinking,
the people stand,
travel across the land,
queue silently, waiting on bridges
at crossroads, rural roadsides,
with their horses, tractors, bicycles;
lining sidewalks twenty deep
with their children,
their ubiquitous phones, craning,
including those who protest
politely with blank sheets of paper
all at the behest of heartspeke,
instinct and collective emotion.
Through the thin places, spaces,
where the haunting bagpipes echo,
church bells toll, sirens wail
and thrumming engines underpin
the scrunch of marching feet
and a myriad straining eyes
as the masses gather, magnetized,
focused and irrepressible
in solidarity and unwavering intent.
What is it that summons them?
Coheres their purpose and direction
melding them into something
more than separate selves?
As spring tides leap from the depths
drawn by the strings of the moon
and the celestial occasion -
with Jupiter high on mid-heaven
they come from far and near
mourning, celebrating
they know not which
but sure and clear as to how and why - where to:
the bee zoning straight to its nectar
the ant, the wildebeest on track,
the migrant bird and butterfly
to their destination - calling, called.
As certain as the rolling earth
spinning through dusks and dawns,
the man-thing, swinging
between his waking and sleep,
as light follows dark and darkness
reciprocates
so the single swells up to multitude
and responds as one.
Sept.