Around the lowering pegs of night
Circle now in silent rings
Logsheets of those unheard calls
Packed and parcelled, pile on pile.
Brimmed in blankness, engine throbs -
Fingers dance on keyboard floor:
Clip clap clip clap
Clip clap clip clap.
This the Bach and Brahms I choose,
For perhaps that single vase
That now lies on cobwebbed shelf
Clenching lifeless twigs it seems,
Dry and filled with dust and dirt.
But would this not in moments melt,
If, for once, when hoped-for least
Comes in flash the tidal call
And drowning all in surging bliss,
Lifts me soaring, surfing high?
A shuffle on the stairs,
A whisper in the wind.