This is the sound -
In moments of quiet and detachment,
I hear it.
I know the words repeated in darkness.
They slide over damp grass 
And broken cobblestone.
The march of the saints stops here,
And converges upon white doors 
And polished marble floor.
Their litany echoes in haunted streets -
Phillip, Anne, Peter -
And past, into shadowy gardens
And narrow alleys,
Over the seers of years and secrets,
Raising the restless dead -
Sprawling beneath that glorious purple sky.
This is the sound.


  • Fay Slimm

    A poet's poem that touches the imaginative by use of metaphor and makes readers want more - thank you Cindy for this little gem which goes into my favourites.

    • CindyB

      Thank you! This was actually written about my love for New Orleans 😊

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