The lutenist
has always needed silence,
hearing the sound
without sound.
The listeners
always needed that silence
to hear the grass
still growing.
Breathing suspended
leaves the clear glass clear,
a wood settling creak in the roof,
wind pushing its point home.
Bach and Weiss
improvising on lute and clavichord
long into the dead hours
made
wheedling,
dripping,
mix-and-match,
lead-and-follow
notes of weaving glass,
surround the silence.
Honor O Brolchain