White Song


With most of the modern world owning mobile phones nowadays, we are more reachable. In a dream I had, I couldn’t reach anyone, nor hear anyone on the end of the line. After all, there isn’t any proven means of contacting the dead just as yet.


When the petals droop

Decayed and creased,

I empty the vase

And make voices

In the lines

Brown blemished notes,

All husk,

No song

Folded over my thumb;

The crackling

Of past conversations

Picked and strung

The green stems,



Of a phone handheld

Trailing underground

Signal small space,

And a dial tone from beyond –

You speak

Answering machine

In the blips and beeps

I leave a message,


To retrieve

From the deep



Amber R Walker, Hull, Creative Writer, Bookmaker, Lover of art

One thought on “White Song

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