Written at the church of St. Martin in the Fields, London, while listening to a Vivaldi cello concerto on May 25, 2001.
by Gideon Burton
On these crescendos, brushing toward a soft
alignment, something heavy seems to light:
a slight , accusing signal, less than night,
and just as suddenly compelled aloft.
The music, rising, in perfecting fades.
Its blush and color thunders in its rush
toward a last parenthesis of breath.
A death perhaps. Perhaps a shift in clef.
The even ground tugs skyward in the crush
of green ascension, morning heaved in spades
another time for this, another peak,
another supposition given full
disclosure, casual of where it pulls
serrated phrases on us, strongly weak.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - kardboard604