Harold Macdonald's Muse


 

The Rave

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Harold Macdonald

When they hear of love they choke with laughter

Preferring something tangible and real

Something one could touch and feel

Someone not around the morning after

 

Or when they see the quiet simple things

They scarcely interrupt their frantic pace

Being spun by envy’s super-large embrace

Seeking, what the jack-pot never brings

 

The raving clamour of the day and night

Drowns out the still small voice, the what, the why, the who

the precious thing that only we can do

the candle to be lit, the inextinguishable light

 

Now, as then, God speaks through inward fire

A voice as quiet, compelling, as a lovely choir.