-A lyric sadness in the
air. Mozart?
Or Haydn? Almost sounds
like Arvo Part.
-She is superb this
busker near the curb.
-A
balm for equine meditated flight.
-She
raises all our darkness to the light.
We join the crowd. The
pigeons we disturb
Advance and peck the
concrete looking lost.
Our coins, festina lente,
tempest-tost.
The sharps and flats and
pitch are anchors thrown
To still our stride, like
snares of sound our own
Hearts recognize. Becalmed
in placid seas
Of melody, she bows us
into port,
Slow sarabandes for
landfalls soft. They court
Our wayward variations
with a breeze
Of interlude. You take my
arm and draw
Me on, exempla of Newtonic
Law.
© ralph patrick mackay
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