At night when everything is still
you can hear the wild river sing
tunes it taught the salty norsemen –
shape your sword into a paddle,
undo gretchen’s flaxen braids,
break your last good sickle
on the devil’s outcrop of pumice –
stories that chase their own tale,
a babble gone downstream
to the neighbouring town
boulder a bit rounder
in the light of dawn.
At night when everything is still
you can hear the star bells ringing,
dim-lit chapels in the firmament,
monastery adjoining the marketplace,
pinwheels and whirling carousels,
candy floss for the pink of heart.
As the celebrants dance in the street,
a moonbeam glints on the villain’s stiletto.
A chorus of policeman slinks onstage,
timpani grumble in the orchestra pit.
But the soprano will triumph
with her signature supernova.