Jerry Goldsmith’s title theme, its plaintive
minor key arrangement, somehow welcoming
the snow that falls outside our kitchen window.
The rote activity of washing takes me
miles away, and in that sweetest dream
the music like a hand-embroidered
counterpane – each note within the melody
a cipher to be read and kept concealed.
That we communicate at all is half
mistake. I turn the thick LP, listen
to the piano, all the silences it leaves –
the hiss and crackle whispering of things
so old they beggar history: a sound
like fire in fields of wheat, the wind at sea.