Thursday, 17 March 2016

Evening

The crackling on the blutoothed audio
Is absolutely accurate,
Above Maggie Teyte and Cortot,
Singing and playing on the Robert's radio,
Beamed from a CD on the internet
Remastered from an ancient gramophone.
The combination is perfect.


The coals shuffle down
Lulled by the sizzling
Knowing they're not alone
In sparkling, fizzling.


The little blue toothed flames dance
Feeling the heat of the south of France
Languid, calm and dying away
In crescendos, diminuendos
Matching themselves to the tapering
Phrases, flickering, capering
Over cinders, slowly collapsing,
Then waking and dancing again in reprise.


And only the clock
Refuses to yield to the mood,
Until, right at the end
He seems to unbend
And makes a perfect metronome,
And admits that his heart is beating
To the music's winding and weaving.
And the dog is asleep and snoring:
C'est l'heure exquise.

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