
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

A friend's wife was pregnant. She was a cellist.