IF ONLY WE HEARD ONE SYLLABLE OF IT
What was his voice like, I wonder, Van Gogh.
Was it sunflower husk, a river of gold
A hesitance of spring buds chilled as early April
Was it the will to dream in colours he could not afford
Was his voice crackled did it flare suddenly and then ebb
Like a misinterpreted sea and self abating
Was he then silent, afraid
Did he plead
In flights of crows disremembering everything
Was his voice timorous as a child
Was he mute for days
I cannot say I cannot think I think in a daze of sorrow
If only we heard one syllable of it
Breaking like stones in a difficult field
We would understand it all.
Mary angela douglas 27 january 2024
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