The flute

A tremor
just a whistle through the pallid descent
of air across the sanctuary
almost lost in the clamor of condemned sinners accosting their timeless anger
Their sobs mark the indulgences denied them

Meanwhile the lad who came from the field does not know the prayers
Spurning a too extended silence during the litany
he fingers a wooden pocket flute
and brings to life the airs and goatpaths he knows inside the house of meeting
Open fourths and a soft sad flattened sixth

His trembling overtones lift flaccid necks
Now they are all dry-eyed
sensing well that the sanctuary air is listening

This poem was published in the Spring 2020 issue of Soul-Lit.

Andy Oram
April 24, 2019