Hear the wind blowing through the trees.
It dances scarlet graves of leaves.
Spectral orchestra, communes under direction
Of the equal conductor, section by section.
The slabs and headstones all in place
Perched, high and low, named, face to face.
Each one solos its finite story
Long, short or middling inventory.
The symphony plays its stony dirge,
And bone sounds carry and converge,
As blades of grass in supplication
listen to Moore's ghostly ovation.
(Magpie Tales #90)
Spectral orchestra, communes under direction
ReplyDeleteOf the equal conductor, section by section.
Haunting music, Nana Jo.♥
there is a lyrical quality to your words that accompanies that symphony well...very nicely penned...
ReplyDeleteLove how you combined music and words.
ReplyDeleteThe idea of blades of grass as mute audience is charming.
ReplyDeletegreat poem - I especially liked the 'bone sounds'
ReplyDeleteThoughtful and nicely crafted, Jo.
ReplyDeleteThat was nifty, fitting and neat! I love the thought of Spectral Orchestra's....!
ReplyDelete*.......gorgeous little blessings by the way!
Lovely rhythm and rhyme here...not sing-songy, but full of delicious texture...
ReplyDelete..each one solos ...ghostly ovation
ReplyDeleteThis was wonderfully pondered by you!
Lovely words, especially the final verse which just seemed to say so much so well.
ReplyDeleteSolid & Full Of Life.Beautifully Said.
ReplyDeleteWonderful!
ReplyDeleteAnna :o]
amazing.
ReplyDelete:)