by Ninian Williams

Created on: April 26, 2008

On Growing Deaf

There is a quiet
I cannot describe.

Although, I see the birds
On the lawn, and they do not sing
For me,

I pretend to hear how it might sound
In the morning, the soft cooing,
The water of the garden pond
As I watch our fish wondering
When food will come.

My daughter plays this game.
She mouths words, a test
To see what I can fathom.

I hear you when you turn around
And face your lips to mine.
Perhaps, my eyes stare
Too closely,
For comfort sometimes.

How I wish to hear Beethoven
In the upper register again,
How so many notes glide.

How he must have delighted
In his imagination, to see
Notes marking themselves,
Where he could not hear,
When the music stopped.

The music goes round and round
Inside our heads, and your lips
Speak constantly
What I do hear.
Besides, what I miss does offer
Comic relief.

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