Deafening

Deafening

When the night is crying

shards of rain without a pause

that slice into the earth

as if with intentional cruelty,

what words are her slurred voice

muttering, longing to shout?

What is it the night wishes 

to force into our listening ears 

and foolish brains?

If not the words, I hear the mood.
She wishes to be accuser.

‘Where have they gone?’

I think she says: ‘all those trees

whose silken leaves

rubbed up against my skin

enjoying my embrace?

Where are the many creatures,

their eyes alight with my stars?’

My voice dies in my throat

before I can tell her

‘There are still trees,

there are still creatures.’

There are, but I know she means

they are dwindling fast,

have dwindled. I cannot meet

the night’s unanswerable questions.

Not without admitting guilt.

On behalf of my species

I cower and remain silent,

huddling indoors

where I cannot see

bright eyes in the shadows,

the moonlit edges of leaves,

nor feel the air soften to velvet.

I seek, instead, to muffle

the sharp slap of the rain.

For Weekly Scribblings #11 at Poets and Storytellers United, Sanaa invites us to try hypophora – in which a writer poses a question and then immediately answers it.