Prog Rock and the Language of Noise

Noise grows as weeds
in my garden of sound,
seeds dropped by passing crows,
their black notes ricochet
over quiet pathways,
tube trains, arguments, kids learning sax
smartphones, the announcer

bindweed aggressive bristled
brings out my spade,
get killer Round-Up
swop horticulture
for a wilding

so three percussionists
blocked full across the stage
in the gilded concert garden,
send blooms of scented springtime,
clematis, cistus, philadelphus,
to echo round and through and over
king crimson playing
on the embattled lawns;

a nimbus of nettles
still floats below the cupola
till a city-sky aircons it out
and scarlet poppies burst their seed
to happy happy soaring bass,
blitzing across the velvet seats

torching the voice of only a boy
who will burn up brambles
gift us
just a climbing dog rose
softly
into our arms’ embrace,
on a perfect sphere
of meadow sweet.

M. E. Muir is a Scot now living in London, former teacher and business consultant, some of whose work has recently been published in Dawntreader, Carillon, Morphrog, The Curlew and The London Grip.