**(Prelude: Voices they cannot Hear)** 

Eternal things are not of this world. 
So say the muses beneath hearing. 
The Angels sing only in Heaven. 
So say the ghosts beneath fearing. 

Seven steps up the mountain to the promised land; 
somewhere across the lakes of regret- 
Perhaps on the ledges of lesser heights 
the poets and teachers gather wet... to write. 

Even the virgins bleed 
the crippled seed 
and the mindless weed 
grows tall.... 
enough to obscure reality 
from a man lost 
in his dreams. 

**(Stave One: Epiphany in the Meadow)** 

Dainty white flowers without a name 
turned into love me knots 
that tied me to the ground 
that I might see blue in a lighter shade 
surrounding the dance of your hair. 
Hair of copper wisps, fingers of the breeze, 
that played my face like a game. 

The meadow rose opened wide to see 
why the sparrows would not wing 
and the secret song of the bumble bee 
crossed the lips of our hearts to sing. 

I did not know of the empty place- 
before the rains of the fall. 
And that winter I was never cold, 
never cold at all...... 

It was winter- 
that winter the universe condensed 
into the amber sky of your eyes 
and your name rang out in the meadow 
just because it tickled my ears 

and you were the laughter 
of all my days... 
of all of my days, 
my dear. 

I came to know why the old man died 
crumpled, alone on the iron rod bench... 
the one no one knew 
but the lover gone 
on the meadow song 
of sparrows that took wing. 

I came to know there was an empty place 
because you filled it with the pour of your touch. 

I came to know of heartbreak 
and slow death by the meadow brook. 

**(Stave Two: Cacophony of the Meadow Crow)** 

The cold, black brook chases itself 
in fleeting fury 
refusing to be contained, held, or admired 
for more than an instant. 
Its liquid babble beating smooth the rock 
into slimy stone. 
Cutting out the virgin earth 
to uproot the meadow rose. 
Loud and louder and louder still 
the water’s feet 
stomp away running... 
chasing the sparrow to the sea 
taking the pour of you in me 
in each gulp of the thirsty crow. 

And the meadow weeds hide 
the bumble bee’s secret... 
the shade is thick on the bench 
where the young man grows... 
grows and grows 
grows and grows 
old. 

And you are the laughter of days... 
all of my days 
all of my days, 
my dear. 

**(Stave Three: Lament of the Sparrow)** 

The bark of the dog wood never ceases 
to cover the silence of your initials in the tree 
and my knuckles bleed trying to find 
a migrant path... out of my mind. 

But they would have me shackled in silver rings 
that promise no certainty of ever healing... 
just patching wounds that scar deeper 
with every turn of the lock and key. 

And the moonlight crawls too slowly 
underneath the chamber door. 

I need no sleep; I need no food. 
I need to know the whys. 
I need no sleep; I need no food. 
I need to say good-byes. 

The rainbow is a jagged crown 
that obscures too many distant clouds... 
The rain makes mud cries out of dirt pain 
and the brook babbles loud and loud 
and LOUD. 

Oh, gracious host of the land of ghosts 
she could not see the eagle in my sparrow wings 
and thus, I must, I must in trust 
confess... that I will die 
never having learned to fly. 

**(Stave Four: Vespers at the Zephyr of Dusk)** 

We gather here to lay down forever 
the old man that no one knew 
and here we place a meadow rose 
among the white flowers that have no name. 

Let the babbling brook give him cool drink for his thirst; 
let the scarred tree give him shadow for his sleep; 
let the ground be a warm blanket in the cold winter; 
and let the silence here be a restful peace 
from the torturing rains of the fall. 

**(Codicil: In the Meadow)** 

And your name rings out in the meadow 
just because it tickles my ears 
and you are the laughter 
of all my days... 
of all of my days, 
of all of my days 
my dear. 

Tony Spivey 
Copyright 2001 

Song...Midnight in Montgomery