HERE AND HUMAN

In the warm room, cushioned by comfort,
Idle at fireside, shawled in lamplight,
I know the cold winter night, but only
As a far intimation, like a memory
Of a dead distress whose ghost has grown genial.
 
The disc, glossy black as a conjurer’s hat,
Revolves.  Music is unwound:  woodwind,
Strings, a tenor voice singing in a tongue
I do not comprehend or have need to -
‘The instrument of egoism mastered by art’ -
 
For what I listen to is unequivocal:
A distillation of romantic love,
Passion outsoaring speech.  I understand
And, understanding, I rejoice in my condition:
This sweet accident of being here and human.
 
Later, as I lie in the dark, the echoes
Recede, the blind cat of sleep purrs close
But does not curl.  Beyond the window
The hill is hunched under his grey cape
Like a watchman.  I cannot hear his breathing.
 
Silence is a starless sky on the ceiling
Till shock slashes, stillness is gashed
By a dazzle of noise chilling the air
Like lightning.  It is an animal screech,
Raucous, clawing:  surely the language of terror.
 
But I misread it, deceived.  It is the sound
Of passionate love, a vixen’s mating call.
It lingers hurtful, a stink in the ear,
But soon it begins to fade.  I breathe deep,
Feeling the startled fur settle and smooth.  Then I sleep.

  by Vernon Scannell