Sunday, 28 December 2014

Debussy Fills the Scented Air (rondeau redoublé)

Debussy fills the scented air of Sunday afternoon
Rises and floats its rippling notes, which land
As motes of dust upon my mind, the tune
Itself winds round my memory, I understand
Its language by some instinct as beneath each hand
The keys respond to pressure: greater, lesser and too soon
I am a child again at home beside the fire and
Debussy fills the scented air of Sunday afternoon.
And yet it is my son that plays: a Prelude and Claire de Lune.
It's his childhood I want to savour, but one can't command
The images which fill the screen inside the head, so the moon
Rises and floats. Its rippling notes, which land
On tiny hairs within my ears, reverberate, demand
Attention. Other music, more simple and jejune
Never spoke to my soul in childhood, like the Erard grand.
As motes of dust upon my mind, the tune
Descends in little showers, lands on cobwebs which festoon
Acanthus leaves and neat bell flowers which stand
In plaster stiffness listening.  The tune
Itself winds round my memory, I understand
So very little, how the tide of strong emotion pulls the sand
Of time back to it, music physics is just acoustics, immune
To such poetic fancy, but the basis of this magic's bland
And logical mathematics. Like diamonds from the dull earth hewn,
Debussy fills the scented air.

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