High Up Poem by Bob Dellar

I`m so high up,
that when my
brother shouts
I hear
nothing.

His lips move
and he gesticulates,
but I hear
nothing.

His voice has taken a detour
free of its box.
It drifts upwards,
in its own time,

alights on a branch,
takes in the view,
stretches its vowels
collects its consonants,
adjusts the volume;

it`s in no hurry to be heard.
The wind blows through the tree
and the voice wavers.

I wait, trying to lip read
from 30 metres up,
then suddenly:

It`s bloody late, you coming down!
Oh! I jump, yeah ok! I shout;
but my brother looks confused
and points to his ear.

My brow furrows in surprise,
then I realise,
my voice is as lazy as his.