I am beset by noise in my stillness today.
The whining, tortured cry of the children’s swing in the playground outside.
The water purifier’s song – an incessant twanging.
From a discussion of poetry online,
I turn to the quiet succor of images.
And in the upturned earth of my ploughed being,
Through the dynamic of a noise-making, noise-shredded still—
Come these words.