Drunk On Noise

I crack my face from the computer screen;
endless numbers and colours
and impressions of others’ lives.
Noise,
I am drunk on noise.
I have drunk so much noise that it flows from my ears and eyes.
Now change the view:
fields at 7pm.
I don’t care if it’s a cliche to admire this
golden hour,
somewhere between night and day.
Today it has rained so much that even the soft light is washed clean,
piercing shadow.
My eyes ache, refocus on distant points,
sheafs of cloud, brilliant white and thunder blue.
The grass shivers as the sun slips lower,
flowers close.
There is so much movement even in this stillness –
striped snails navigate the paths with cautious grace,
one magpie dives like a playing card tossed through the air,
I can feel again,
I can drink this forever –
the wet pavements covered in spatters of orange
and pink, from the flowering trees,
the sound of your name spoken softly all the while.

‘As Kindred Spirits’ by Asher Durand Cole (1849)