Quiet, on the terrace,
we sit reading.
then
the strident cacophony
of dogs suddenly barking
in next door's garden,
others beyond the orchard;
and yet more distant
poor-pampered beasts
from the village half a mile away.
It irks my ears, actually hurts,
such a yapping and a clammering
as yet more set up their baying
as if they need to drown
the still of the evening
in perpetual attention-seeking noise.
My ears by now disturbed,
attuned to sound
and not the sight of words,
I sense the whirr of pigeons' wings
hear the high hum of an aircraft engine
the slamming of a car door
the mindless thump of 'music'
from the village pub.
"But break, my heart"
for where is silence
and a place for contemplative thought?
