From the spotlight,
he demonstrates his almighty strength,
summoning soft strings, a shy clarinet,
a humble piccolo that pipes from the back,
bringing us all out of our seats and into a melodic
swirl of a world, harmonising angels sweet
There’s a gentle bend in his knees with each wave and rise,
each bloom and push with his hands,
his arms sweeping to the sides,
sending the sound across, kind and caressing.
Thirty-six years old,
his eyes closed in the moment.
In the fifth row, fourth seat in, sits his father,
stirring the amphitheatre air with an index finger
like a curious gecko
guiding his son to welcome the allegro.
His tender smile is proud and his eyebrows rise
as the music lifts.
The quiet cartographer for the silent composer.
This was another piece originally written for the book. It was based off a personal experience (translated to a father watching his son compose) and it found it’s way to a piece of poetry. However, there’s been a bit of a barrier, and improving the piece to be completely happy with it isn’t working. I loved writing it but it’s not meant to be. Hopefully someone will enjoy it on the site!