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House of Blue

There is something detached
about this colour which stands
for the sky. It contains
everything and yet nothing.
At the House of Blue (which takes
its name from that music, the Blues),
I rattle the sistrum until the villagers
run from the prayer-house to see
the clouds above Lake Tana.

They discovered when I was almost
seven, that I could make rain fall
whenever I played the sistrum.
That year, farmers looked
at books and magic scrolls
to read the weather. 
The local herdsman threw
a bucket down a well
and heard it hit the bottom.

It was not far from here -
at the brazier's shop - where
the smith pounded out a piece
of copper on his anvil.
Once I listened to the pitch
between notes made by metal
and hammer, I returned
to the House of Blue and carved
a sistrum handle from acacia.
At intervals, I attached five

discs to each of the traverse wires.
When I played Apocalypse
of Gregories or Song of Baruch
and added blue notes,
the discs jingled together.
I even noticed that the first 
sound was twice as long 
as the second. 

Think of a barley field,
when a woman plants
seeds for next summer,
she sits on the grass to take
possession of the earth.
The need for water stops her
listening to what is
happening in this village.
Note the breeze that carries 
husks across the stream-bed
while the same ploough
rests in the yard.

'House of Blue' is from Denise Saul's House of Blue, published by Rack Press.