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John Killick

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The Composer And The Birds

(after Janacek)

O gather into one’s memory
the rhythm of these coloured miracles -
from the yellow currant leaves with silver edges
to the nebulous silver of the quiet river Visla
over which the crows flew away!

To remember too, in painful silence,
the gravelly, childish innocent voice
of a buzzard hung in a pool of cloud,
and to add to it the rhythm of agitated breathing
and the sad beat of a heart.

In whatever rhythm, whatever tempo
the crows wound into their brains
the beauty of these scenes
in the same rhythm they will unwind them
and the memories will call them home.

But what an uproar: as if clouds were colliding
the seven crows have already returned,
and their little sister hasn’t finished her sewing -
how could she yet have collected
sufficient of the red sky of evening!

But whatever she has been able to catch
she throws over their shoulders.
Now how happily they shed their black feathers!
But one breathlessly tries in vain
to tear them from his right wing . . .

Thus it is left to the composer
to inherit a black wing-tip,
who flies upon and flourishes it,
his creative gift, high in the sky,
though careful to keep one foot on the ground.

Page(s) 18

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