Maestro

Ella Fitzgerald (1917 – 1996) In the midst of stale fog – Is it day or night? The dimmed dishevelled lights don’t give a bass clef Whilst notes made syncopated love at the bar A tsunami of discord, blew out the flame of a good old fashioned And lipstick-stained stubbed ends forgot bruised anguish A minor digress Untainted melodies, swung from a silhouette commissioned from a Nova Calling humanity to bath in the melody of birdsong Quenching dried remnants of bourbon with a perfect pitch Of rare cut diamond chords and rip Each instrument paused before the bar As the voice tootled a trumpet sound The lady knew how to blow that horn Yet, no brass brushed against her lips Then, silence waited in awe for the coveted scat From the sui generis range of a regal gemstone Where the constellations hold the original cut With lulled echoes flowing to hit ‘rewind’