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Deep Listening I heard the dawning light and the soft fine rain. A magpie losing a feather, a spider’s footsteps. I could hear everything pouring into me and out of me, I found I could throw my voice so far it crossed over the sea, I was listening so low and so wide I heard the songs of whales, and birds asleep on the wing, submarine cables buzzing with information. I heard the information. I heard sounds travelling outside time, like ink drying on ancient policies, a key thrown in a well, my mother’s answerphone message from the ’80s. I heard the watcher on the threshold, your silver aura emitting light, a special knock, a trumpet blast, a voice that said, ‘Come and see if my little bright eye is still burning.’ I heard a child (me) reciting a poem. I heard an old man who said his name was Perseverance playing records in my dream. I stood so still I lapsed into pure sound and then into pure listening, and now my voice is an ear, it’s your reply, my voice is touch and sight, it will reach you as tremor or heartbreak, as a sudden shaft of light, as tender attention, as the gap between your breaths, which is a portal. Whoever you are, however quiet, however far, I will hear you if you call me, will you call?