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.