MATTER IS MUSIC. THE ATOMS SING.
Matter is music. The atoms sing. A frog
leaps into the water and strings a
guitar.
Tree rings like odes in the heartwood
of the apple.
The rain breaks like tears into tiny
harps.
A gust of stars, a lyric of dust
wheeling
into galaxies like symphonies in
hydrogen alpha.
And the light, too, playing the flowers
like the stops of a flute, and the
leaves
like semi-quavers, and their fruit,
like whole notes.
Adagios of colour, bass runs of taste,
and sound the echo of a shape shifting
mirror
that touches the light like a lake
touches the moon inseparably playing
on the plectra of its waves like an
encore
among lovers mastering each other’s
bodies
like first violins. Or red-winged
blackbirds,
the woodwinds, or the wavelengths of
disparate stars
resonating with the eye into lyres, and
eagles, and swans.
And me? I’m this voice that’s been
scored
by time and space to reveal the
contours
of a theme interweaving like a melodic
river
through the mindscape of a dream in
counterpoint.
And I can hear tides in the rush of the
wind
breaking in the leaves of the silver
Russian olives
and the great sorrows of children who
died young
playing in the rain on the syrinx of
the columbine.
And strange and eerie from a distant
window
I can hear the muted suffering of a
song
whose words I know all too well by
heart.
PATRICK WHITE
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