Something about Handel
rushing me down the motorway.
Queen of Sheba,
or Vivaldi
dodging the frantic traffic
in the city,
or Chopin Nocturnes
on a country road
the sun lightening and darkening
behind the clouds.
Something about Mozart
parked by the village green
birds fluting and dancing,
or Wagner
by the sea where the waves
crash on the shingle
a brittle sky leaden as mountain tops,
or Beethoven
at night playing
with a dark tune’s bones
as the tyres sing
and headlights sweep.
Something about Tchaikovsky
when raindrops spatter the windscreen
and swish to the pas de deux
of the wiper blades
as the road ahead fogs and glooms.

That was when Classic FM
was road to road music
but now the repetitive adds
and the endless introductions
and variations on a jingle
have driven me off.

I’m on to Radio 3.


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