The music is dead on the shelf but flutters into life
when chosen, circles the light of listening: a moth,
a firefly, a spark of melody and time, a memory
of a concert, mood or tune, to keep the future away.

Wind blows all thoughts of silence into disarray,
notes scattered, chorus scrambled, rearranged
as improvised moments, scrape of a string or
amplified spring, yowl and call, distant radio hum

and the slow return of rhythm from another time,
sequencer beat and synthesizer footprint across
echoplex guitar and the sound of every singer
I’ve ever loved whispering a last goodbye.


© Rupert M Loydell
illustration: Atlanta Wiggs

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