The Listener

The listener doesn’t need to hear

For his soul is already attuned;
To the sounds that encase him
Like a blanket that fits,
Snuggly over his shoulders
Right down to his finger tips.

She already notices the changes within each season.
Sang by the winds whinge amongst the trees and
While the cuckoo hammers strong,
The other birds raise up their voices in a collective, glorious song.

Yet it’s the muffled sound held in the decaying movements 
of last autumn’s leaves that
harold’s springs approach;
like a soft sigh of release
from the soles beneath ones feet.

I hear your approach.
I need not prick up my ears to hear for your foot fall.
Rather I notice your presence
In the orchestral call 
in all which surrounds me;
from bunches of snowdrops 
and flouncy pussy willow
From tender dandelion leaves
to the soft yellow hues in the daffodils.

The listener hears because he is here.
She is attuned to being present
I need only
to be.

Your Koru