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This Is Where The Wood Meets The Womb

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.

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.

This is where the wood meets the womb.

This is where the wood meets the womb.

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.

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.

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?

© Michael Worthington Music 2017

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

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