L'aura del Campo

Missing the high notes

Missing the high notes

His flute lays silent above two abused maracas.
No soft caress, no tug of breath,
will make it sing of youth,
spring to salute each bulging bag-pipe
passing by... ignoring him.

He's sung his last song, one screeching note...
long months ago... and all alone...
not even a friendly timpani to pound along.
He no longer joins the local chorus of clarinets,
two whiny oboes, one deep-throated bass bassoon.

He misses them, their weave of melody,
the ever expectant ebb and flow of harmony.
They miss his descant, his dramatic pitch,
his ever stiff and jaunty... piccolo.

© Kåre Enga [11.september.2015]

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