It is the nature of this world to stop you listening to your soul…
Reminder, diary, signal, intermittent, Wifi – “password please”
Text alert, your playlist, your tune.
No, it’s another phone – how dare they have my ring tone.
Ping, bleep, ping ping, whoosh, your text is sent.
But an hours walk from the metal road
From wire fibre and wireless net.
All that distracts me is the call of the cuckoos
Three of them, but one may be an echo.
My spirit guide stands below
His velvet crown of hidden thorn
As he listens to the cuckoo’s calls,
But no doubt can translate this binary tone.
Pings are now sandpiper’s peeps,
The curlew a modem,
And the beached seals wave their feet to pick up a better signal.
And the only swish of ‘message sent’ is the wind in the birches.
As for me, the only plug I have
Is the black ferrule on my stick,
And the signal I see
Are flashes of crystal white from the waters of the sea loch.
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