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.