Now we’re at least talking once again,
or, at least, sitting in the same room –
well, at least for more than a moment.
The Guns of Navorone have boomed
and now there’s quiet. Krakatoa’s
sleeping for a while, and almost purrs.
There’s been, of course, silence like this
before. An armistice, a shift
in the unsaid politics, a stillness.
I believe it will not last. Theft
is quiet always, unexpected.
It creeps up on the most contented.
But while it lasts I’ll not provoke
its end by brooding. No, contemplate
instead the sound of rain, smoke’s
wayward swirl, the eyes of a cat.
These are things forgotten fast
when the quips start hitting like a fist.
(David McLintock)