Members' Area
At the tone, the time will be that night
when the glass glowed before the sound came,
the moment recorded itself and outside
there were reeds at the winter’s edge,
there was a north wind across marshland.
That night by the lake when the old boat
that would never float again moved slightly
as the waves brushed it through the grasses,
as the lapping seeped through.
And the song when it came, came gradually
from a crackle like a throat clearing,
and when you heard the tone it was 1957,
and it was worth the set’s tuning,
the dark whispering across the reedbeds
with the hiss of a distant signal
in place of what was lost,
while the amber-lit wireless smile,
once warmed, stayed constant.
