Music
Some words strut about
like tragedians on stage. Alas!
Or bit part play the page
quietly stealing scenes.
Words on stilts shout
above the rabble of the street.
Speech is peeling from meaning,
the lute’s gold leaf
all but flaked away. Antique.
Nothing new to say.
Close the piano’s lid.
I am calm without words.
I smother them at birth.
My smile in the hand on my mouth.
Gary Jude is from London, and divides his time between the UK and Switzerland. He has previously had poems published in Acumen, Iota, The Wolf, Orbis and Poetry Salzburg.