The steel tussock
shimmering where fresh gusts lift
across the narrows
of the hill,
old wire, the curled barbs of a fence, thistle
and hone in the hut

of my cochlea,
my crouched neck hid in the chests
of grass, citadels
for the ants
that scurry down its roots. What the wind hunts
happens in my ear,

rustlings, stipplings
on the vane of silence, the lisp
and showering sigh
of some else-
where’s bidden mouthings, senses, clues, crackles
in the simple straw

unclip the wind
limp in the paddock of the
spine; and the sky, down
as the bulbs
in the soil, bustled over the sung barbs
of shivering wire

wills I am left
alone, hearing the low growl
of the moving gust
over fields
come rising through trees and the thrashing folds
of darkening hills.

'Song' from The Dialectic of Mud (Auckland University Press, 2001), © Richard Reeve 2001, used by permission of the author and the publishers. Poet’s private recording 2011.

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