The Lost Music

There is a place where it is all recorded
Each look, each touch and kiss, each word, discarded
As casually as rain into the sea,
Is treasured there, and waits to be recovered.

The keeper of this place is known to you
From long ago. And yet he has no past

And makes no plan, and feels no weight of loss,
No fear, only moment by moment looses
A stream of random and beautiful
Notes without music.

Now in the dark place, each of us forgotten,
We cry out for him to come down and save us.

Like the architects of buildings we shall not see,
The planners of gardens and the planters of trees
That will not be grown in our own children's lifetimes,
We beg him to tell us who we have been

In the world of light, and taste, and sunshine.
Let the broken moments receive their true names.

Come to us,
Singer of men's lives, make sense of us:
Play back the music we wrote without knowing.
Let us hear if it was lovely.

From The Lost Music (Bloodaxe, 1996)

For more work by Katrina, click here.