Talk Much

yet another old poem

We no longer talk much,
You and I,
As once we did,
Our fingers stabbing high to punctuate
Our soaring conversation.

Spectators were always puzzled then
As if listening to scouts reporting back
From strange and alien lands.
No matter.
We walked the lands we knew
And talked them
With scant regard for any audience
Outside ourselves.
Reports we made rang truth
Each from the other.
Two views of one terrain.

No more.

Have you been to the mountains?  Then I've been below.
Should I mention sunshine, it’s sure you've seen snow.
While your hands talk in lines, mine circular go.

 

© 1978, 2010. Michael Bruce-Lockhart. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced without the author's permission.