Another Sunday evening; darkness falls
earlier now each day and I have drawn
the curtains long ago. Faint, distant calls
of nameless creatures pencil their forlorn
needs on silence’s soft slate. Dry leaves
outside converse in whispers. A thin wind grieves.

Inside, a different kind of music grieves:
a measured threnody unfolds and falls
in melting pearls that form a pool which leaves
rich sonic fragrance in the air. Then, drawn
from woodwinds’ lamentations and forlorn
complaints of strings, float wraiths of bugle-calls.

This is the Sunday music that recalls
dim images of loss and one who grieves
and gazes over moorland more forlorn
than twilit fields of crosses. Here rain falls
unceasingly. Gun-carriages, horse-drawn,
move with small thunder muffled by moist leaves.

It is not only genius that leaves
its legacy of melody which calls
our hearts to mastering heel where they are drawn
to passionate compliance: Rudolfo grieves
as poignantly as Dido. Waterfalls
of richness drench, but leave us still forlorn.

Whoever writes the score, the same forlorn
message is received. The years, like leaves,
are heaped beneath the trees; the last one falls,
and then the man in sable clothing calls.
Love can’t be weighed by how the window grieves.
Like all the hard-fought contests this is drawn.

Violins are beautiful as objects drawn
by master draughtsmen; even the forlorn
stone-or-tone-deaf solitary who grieves
apart perceives the sweep of sound that leaves
shapes of unuttered song, and so he calls
“Encore!” before the final curtain falls.

Then he, too, falls. The orchestra’s withdrawn
and no more curtain-calls; the drained, forlorn
audience leaves, and darkening silence grieves.


Comments



1 Comment so far

  1.    marti on January 26, 2013 7:08 am

    Not the usual 135 and 246 rhyme in the initial stanza. The following stanzas are unique in their pattern. This is a lovely choice for the site. And this was written by a guy who also used to box! Amazing.

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