I take my bow, 

it is really yours.

Proud bends the back

of the master.

Semaphored arms 

embrace acoustic gold.

The tenants appraise,

heads in silenced rows. 

Bodies rustle, anticipation is

subsumed into soft cough

and quiet creak.

All is submission 

as a pin of fallen angels

sprawls across the floor.

Equations their silent recitals 

while music sits patient

as an obedient hound.

So now…

To elevate a multitude 

of trailing notes.

Spinning of helicopter leaves

in a brass breeze.

A syncing of vibration and desire 

pitches each point perfect, 

till buttercup soft

lit hard and sharp,

under home’s dull light.

Sour

as summer lemon trees.

Then boom-dark 

crash, as water calling

dead souls to the combe.

And all this while

in a discomfort of seats,

ears make ready to meet

the brightling core

that sits within.

©️. Dai Fry 3rd May 2020.