Flute

.

sitting quietly, intent, 

listening for the late evening’s breeze-song,

it sighs and I’m minded to think

of an Japanese girl, whose beautiful lips

rest gently on the mouthpiece

of an ancient wooden flute,

a breathy resonance, 

strokes my throat as I swallow in 

a taste of an approaching shower,

when rain finally crashes through

the final apple blossom flees

to seek asylum on a slatted fence

there, caught quivering in webs

it pirouettes in frantic craze,

heavy splashes stamp the earth

like errant schoolboys 

unsupervised, currying chaos 

on a vicarage lawn

daffodils are skittled all askew,

it is done, the dark cloak withdraws

and I tentatively venture out

amongst the floral devastation

but the perfume, the heady fresh perfume

in the dampened sod, 

spins me like a top, 

I have to sit, drunk, sedated

as the breeze timidly returns, 

the flautist wets her lips

.

.© Graham Sherwood 04/2019