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Zoe McCann

The Harp

I was deep in my books when it broke
through the evening: a golden unspooling
of music so beautiful, I rose from my chair
like a woman in thrall. A song made of water,
Hyperion’s daughter could not have conducted
a more ineluctable spell than the swell
of that heavenly air. In the pluck of those strings
was the pattern of things. I froze and I listened,
as each ringing note spoke of truth with an ease
that rebuked industry and the complicating
of simplicity. I have no strong feelings
about life’s meaning, no spiritual leanings,
but if there’s a secret behind our existence,
surely the harp is the arca that keeps it.

*****
The Harp by Zoe McCann was highly commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition May 2019 judged by Terry Jones.