Camping,

a tractor turns and its mechanical racket,

indescribable vibration,

up itself, makes no sense

while my three sons, asleep in a nearby tent,

celebrate

learning, feeling, singing, whispering, dancing.

 

Most clatter is hollow; spiraling labyrinthine ears

and once I sat in an empty cave and heard – Nothing.

Instinctively, I made up noises to cheer

my brain – sounds of people –

like these boys breathing and dreaming in a tent’s stocking;

yearning for the centre of a small warm circle.