Amelie Rives, Princess Troubetzkoy, 1904 Pierre Troubetzkoy (Printed by Alvin Langdon Coburn)
Monday, November 14, 2011
The Sound of the Light
I hear sheep running on the path of broken limestone through brown curled leaves fallen early from walnut limbs at the end of a summer how light the bony flutter of their passage I can hear their coughing their calling and wheezing even the warm greased wool rubbing on the worn walls I hear them passing passing in the hollow lane and there is still time
the shuffle of black shoes of women climbing stone ledges to church keeps flowing up the dazzling hill around the grassy rustle of voices on the far side of a slatted shutter and the small waves go on whispering on the shingle in the heat of an hour without wind it is Sunday none of the sentences begins or ends there is time
again the unbroken rumble of trucks and the hiss of brakes roll upward out of the avenue I forget what season they are exploding through what year the drill on the sidewalk is smashing it is the year in which you are sitting there as you are in the morning speaking to me and I hear you through the burning day and I touch you to be sure and there is time there is still time