A Call – Caleb Parkin

Caleb Parkin

Melissa, in the flow of motorway,
returning from a cottage by a stream.
A voice washed down the line. What did it say?

I cross a bridge, translucent branches sway.
She’ll tell me what she heard, as in a dream –
Melissa, in the flow of motorway.

One night, she lies awake in hours dark grey,
that sound it was not murmur, nor a scream:
a voice washed down the line. What did it say?

The droning of a man. A soft decay-
ing stone left in that water. Heard, it seems,
Melissa, in the flow of motorway.

The neighbor, it is said, had moved away.
Away from that aching nocturnal gleam –
a voice washed down the line. What did it say?

A bee sings overhead, driving the day
towards some twisting leaf, far off downstream.
Melissa, in the flow of motorway:
a voice washed down the line. What does it say?

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