silentium est aureum

In the Cambridgeshire fens, a couple speak, never has. But they make love every day in a hay barn next to his farm house. The only sound in the air is the sipping of tea and the munching of biscuits which follows their coupling- except perhaps for the occasional rustle of the dyke poplars.  He takes her by the hand and leads her into the fields of young barley, along the hedgerows, until they reach a mighty fallen chestnut tree, all bare and bleached by the sun. They play their wooden flutes. He leads a medley of folky classics, sometimes she puts down her flute and dances, swishing about in a discreet circle that progressively broaden. He taps his foot on a flint stone that has laid tight in its home for 342 years. An owl hoots, a jackdaw steps out of its roost, a lumbering jet plane groans across the sky to America and a far-off cement factory’s tower lights go off. Everything- the lights and sounds, the feathers and the bright eyes- they all go their separate silent ways under a prowling fenland moon and none of this is recorded, reviewed or even remembered, except by silence.

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