Spain, in my experience, is a noisy country.  It may well be that the UK is as well, but when you are in a foreign country you tend to be a little more observant.  Especially if you don't speak the native language well and so are not able to disentangle threads of simultaneous conversations as you would be in your native tongue. What can be pure cacophony in one language can turn out to be vibrant discussion in another.
     This poem has its genesis in a barking dog.  That, in itself, is really not an odd circumstance in Spain.  Far too many people seem to own pet dogs (many of the unfortunate 'rat-dog' type) and allow them to express themselves through the medium of the bark to their hearts content.  Irrespective, I might add, of the countless people living around said bark-encouragers.
     Now I am well aware that dogs bark by nature, and therefore any barking on their part is simply what they do.  When these dogs are in crowded urban environments, however, there is an onus on the owners to keep their animals under sonic control.  Which they generally don't.  Welcome to Spain.
     The dog which started the poem was in the leisure centre, well, outside to be precise and, as I later found out, tied to the front gate of said establishment.  Its bark was not its fault: the dog was lonely and barked to show its feelings.  The owners, presumably having a cup of coffee or perhaps engaging in a sport couldn't give a damn about the moronic, repetitive barking of their animal and allowed it to continue.
     It was the quality of the noise that the animal was making, or at least the prominence of the noise that it was making that started off my notes.  I found that I couldn't ignore it, and even when it stopped barking, the expectation of its continuation made the silence something less than comforting.
     When the animal finally settled down, or was exhausted, I immediately noted all the other sounds by which I was surrounded and which I had previously pushed into the background of my hearing because of my annoyance with one poor, neglected animal.
     The poem developed from this inset a consideration of sound, silence and time.
     I found that I was listening more carefully.  It was like using a sketch book - if you are trying to draw something you tend to look at the subject matter with greater attention than previously and that is what I did with the sound landscape in which I found myself.

     This poem has taken a number of drafts and, as you will see, has been divided into sections.  I am not sure if that it what I wanted to do, or whether it is a reaction to a somewhat fractured expression that I found myself with as the poem developed.
     I used the past tense there, but that is only significant as the poem below represents what I have been trying to say up to this point.  Who knows what further modifications I might make before I am actually satisfied?
     The poem might appear long - but the lines are short!

Soundings

(i)

What clocks now, ‘tick’?

The word is half a metaphor

for something there.

Not there.  Until it’s thought about.

Time was.  When

passing moments

sounded

with each second’s

swing and jump. 

            Now, oscillating crystals

hum in noisy silences

at frequencies too high

for our dull ears

to reach. 

            We train

ourselves to deafness.

(ii)

It’s not an option.

Quiet.  Here.

Faces turn

to faces,

round the tables,

drinking coffee,

talking, taking

little notice

of an animal

alone.

A barking dog.

More yaps than barks.

And out of sight.

Monotonous, with that

irregularity

you cannot filter out.

A pause

is simply noise delayed.

Its lack, an irritation.

Renewed, the yelps

become more pained.

Perhaps abandonment

might be the cause,

or not.

(iii)

Unsettled, almost-silence.

Noises move like colours,

stripping camouflage,

to nakedness:

bell-clang, ring-chiming hollow gates;

kicked ball, drum-thumped and echoing;

tymp-rolls’ passing planes complaint;

cello sweeping engine purr;

clacked castanet of kissing boule;

tight, cymbal-clashing wire fence;

thumb-fingered, dampened, glasses’ clunk.

Domino.  Staccato.  Snapped.

Voices. 

Grouped.  Ungrouped.

Play jagged syncopations,

as concerto fights duet;

cadenza, unrestrained, swamps

all the modest sonatinas.

And a conductor?

Nowhere to be seen.

Branches of the distant trees

jitter crowded leaves;

their silent susurration

dead as clocks.

 (iv)

A dog barks.

I enjoy reading this poem out loud.  I read all my poems out loud to get a sense of their rhythm, and this one satisfies me!