KATHLEEN JONES

LISTENING TO GLENN GOULD ON ORTON SCAR

From Ravenstonedale
driving north on unfenced roads,
moonlight reflects
a frozen wake across
the moor — a snail's trail
in my rear-view mirror.

Bach unwinds from the tape
a landscape of variations
into this zero night.

The grass is white; trees
black. Positive and negative
walls run off like staves.

The moon fingers each stone
separately, in unexpected harmonies
and structures, endlessly practising —

a visual music changing
and vanishing with the sounds
lifting from the dashboard,

compelling me to stop.
Listen. Inhabit the quiet
significance of this moment.

Across the counterpoint I hear
the chill cry of a predatory bird.
Single notes rise up like frost.