He laid his ear to the table
and all he could hear was
the long, lonely whir
of the stars.

Galaxies in order, raising
priceless clouds of dust
to the long, lonely beat
of Africa. Under pious vespers.
In the bush.

Drummer and star cluster
keep a discreet
consonance; clouds of dust
in the bush keep a brave
continuity. Which leaves us
to weep.

Michael Webb

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