Philharmonic, by Carol Ann Duffy

16 December 2013

Wounds in wood, where the wind grieves
in slow breves,
——————-or a breeze
hovers and heals; brass,
——————————bold as itself,
alchemical, blowing breath to blared gold;
all strings attached to silver sound.
This the composer found
——————————-in his deaf joy, despair,
and the genius boy; a where for time and space;
a place in endless air for perfect art-
a songbird’s flight
———————-through a great medieval hall
over the dancing dead.

//

As commemorative poems go, a pleasing one to mark the 200th anniversary of the Royal Philharmonic Society.

[Read in and ripped from The Guardian.]

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