” Play to me” she hears him say
with an ear on the look-out
for a familiar fugue. But
the cello has its own way to begin
each slow bow stroke over string
a warm caress traversing
guts in tempo. She reaches round
a full-bodied fondle
Only then from its guttural
gutsy regurgitation comes…
..ocean deep wails of whale, a calf
just dropped in Spring grass
gasping for water and air.
Now the fevered cries of sailors
drowned by siren songs
and albatross. Winds stir
her hair and sound waves summon
a tympanic typhoon – till beaten
back by landfall. Then sostenuto
feather-headed barley go
on their knees after the vanishing storm.
Rocks stand-off, stand firm and form
abstract silences in lustrous pools.
There’s just one last brush stroke
paint runs dry – and a clock
stops – mid-sentence.
“What piece, pray, was that you played?”
she seems to hear him say. Far hence
somewhere, middle distance.
Carrie has given us something musical to arouse our Sunday Muse