THE HARP IS STILL

The harp is still, the wind has gone silent on its wings.
Long ago, the footfalls on the fallen leaves have
held their sound back into the sack.
Where did the harper, the wind and the leaves vanish,
in the shadows that do not speak?
The sun is harsh and heavy is the wood's long-drawn pause.
The silence is its own melody,
and a remedy too,
a much needed respite,
 a tranquility
 away from the noises of the market-place
 and the tolls of the temple bells.