The Call

do you remember how it used to carry over the fields?
the call, I mean – how it whispered with the wind
over the wheat and the rye, echo around the valley,
caress our faces with a mother’s kiss
summoning us back like lost calves

the sound is lost now, in the subtle whines and howls
of the electric wires that hang over our home –
it pushes us too far away, we’re gone before we even know

and now I am forced to sing at you down the phone –
our old kulning cry, calling for you to come home to a simpler time,
to which your reply is the steady disconnect tone


Rose Brennan

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