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Deep Listening

I heard the dawning light and the soft fine rain.
A magpie losing a feather, a spider’s footsteps.

I could hear everything pouring into me and
out of me, I found I could throw my voice so far

it crossed over the sea, I was listening so low and
so wide I heard the songs of whales, and birds

asleep on the wing, submarine cables buzzing
with information. I heard the information.

I heard sounds travelling outside time, like ink
drying on ancient policies, a key thrown in a well,

my mother’s answerphone message from the ’80s.
I heard the watcher on the threshold, your silver

aura emitting light, a special knock, a trumpet blast,
a voice that said, ‘Come and see if my little bright eye

is still burning.’ I heard a child (me) reciting a poem.
I heard an old man who said his name was Perseverance

playing records in my dream. I stood so still I lapsed
into pure sound and then into pure listening,

and now my voice is an ear, it’s your reply, my voice
is touch and sight, it will reach you as tremor

or heartbreak, as a sudden shaft of light, as tender
attention, as the gap between your breaths,

which is a portal. Whoever you are, however quiet,
however far, I will hear you if you call me, will you call?

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