Ken's Poetry

Requium

Black dots
fall from page-tops
like beetles.
Instruments of death,
demisemiquavers
settling like dust,
blowing along
the narrow staves,
silent anacrusis
before the wave
beats down.
Harmony reaching
out across the world
to all keys and clefs,
until the sound dies
in empty halls.
Soft prelude blows
puffed clouds
through summer sky.
From high rostrum
on tall bassoon
and double bass
the baton falls
to a dying tone.