by Jane Monson© Their conversation rustles in the manner of Edwardian skirts; the talk of the passengers around them clicks like the tap of heels. The sound of sign is of clouds snagging on trees, of a line cast over a river, the distant race of water heading across the stones, the catch of a glug as the stream falls between rocks. Shadows animate the train windows; they puppet the textures of silence, flight-ways of hands catch and knit words mid-air. Rings pick out the light like eyes. Outside, the mammoth breath of cows, the push of crows against the sky, the windblown climb of bough and leaf, the itch and sweep of rain and grass, etch out their talk till dark. By night, their conversation twins in the glass. Prose Poem from Speaking Without Tongues (Cinnamon Press: Oct 2010)