Perhaps it's a little consolation that the village br Lays a carpet of whispers as you are led into br Church on Sundays. That they look towards your pew br at an angle and grab a glimpse of their lives br In the blankness as though it were a mirror. br When you hear those prayers for the sick through br The nave of the priest's hands, who do you see? br Or hear? Last winter's ice underfoot br On the way to the cowhouse, or some October's br Apple falling. Which will not splinter or fall br Through your eyes again. br br Once, thinking you were alone, you shuddered. br Then, like transparent fruit, two tears were shook br Free from your pain's branch. A sob, too much br In your hands already, shattered the silence br And cracks raced to my shore of vision br Exposing a torrent of helplessness. br Sometimes when I chase a last pea around the plate br Or say 'That girl is really pretty' br I feel as if I've opened a letter br That isn't for me.