The Kelly Song Collective

This Is Where The Wood Meets The Womb

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The wood meets the womb at this instrument.

And strings rattle bones within my ear.

Crests and swells Vivaldi and Puccini,

music which I hope he can hear.

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Black trees I’ve always known beneath the moon.

Tom Thomson could not conjure up this dream.

A frozen field reflects the sky above it.

I had to stop queer as it may seem.

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This is where the wood meets the womb.

This is where the wood meets the womb.

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Arranging colours has become my station.

Fumbling for creation with my hands.

Riding on a train with farmland vistas.

Inspiration that I now can understand.

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Verses pulled from letters from Kilkelly,

‘1860, my loving son, John’.

I’m weeping in my car below the city,

while that moon is holding fast until the dawn.

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When my child is born will he remember

when wood against his mother softly pressed,

and tunes were sung ‘longside his very vessel,

and melodies played into his chest?

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© Michael Worthington Music 2017