Listening to Apres un Reve, Late November Afternoon

The fog, in swirls, sets out to hide the dying of the light,

The Acer's red against the grey opacity,

Merely fades into obscurity.  And sight

Becomes redundant anyway;  the only necessity

In these blissful moments,

Is the capacity to float on melody. The night,

The fire, the English drawing room fade, dream like,

And all that remains is this strange complexity;

Each note a cycle, just a frequency, 

And yet, mysteriously, loaded with beauty.