Plainsong

Ger Stallenberg

Plainsong

Stop. Along this path, in phrases of light,

trees sing their leaves. No Midas touch

has turned the wood to gold, late in the year

when you pass by, suddenly sad, straining

to remember something you’re sure you knew.

Listening. The words you have for things die

in your heart, but grasses are plainsong,

patiently chanting the circles you cannot repeat

or understand. This is your homeland,

Lost One, Stranger who speaks with tears.

It is almost impossible to be here and yet

you kneel, no one’s child, absolved by late sun

through the branches of a wood, distantly

the evening bell reminding you, Home, Home,

Home, and the stone in your palm telling the time.

Carol Ann Duffy 

 “Trees sing their leaves”. Is that true for us too? Do we sing through our actions, through our movements, through the things we make and say? Is there a melody in how we do our daily tasks, in our work? I get the image of a street full of people, their music colliding and harmonizing - winding, weaving, circling and rising up. An image, but the fact is, everything we do has an effect, a consequence, a percussion you could say, a sound. Music isn't so far-fetched. That line, "The words you have for things die in your heart, but the grasses are plainsong, patiently chanting the circles you cannot repeat or understand." just hits me. So often there are no words for what what's in us, yet listening to or watching the trees or the waving grasses embodies those unnamed thoughts. Being among these there is release, rest. The earth expresses what escapes us, what dodges the encumbrance of words, and gives us a movement and sound, a music. "This is your homeland." How beautiful. "Lost One"," Stranger who speaks with tears", "no one's child" - "through the branches of a wood...Home, Home." Earth and earthling together, singing - Home.