Poem ‘Learning to be still’ by Lynne Bryer

In this narrow bed, I lie
attempting the patience of a shell
that catches light and sound
but makes no move, by no effort of its own
stranded on the sand.
I hear what comes:
traffic like water.
small birds chattering,
the dove that asks 'Where's Father?'
over and again.
Footsteps and pieces
of private conversation,
comforting as random stones
picked up and pocketed.
What comes is welcome, outside control –
Casual, miraculous.
As if I had been deaf
and now may hear
only what is fresh,
the purest gift.