Nacht Musik
My closed eyes have crashed
against an image;
I am a boat moored to a storm.
I keep a notebook on the nightstand,
pencil at hand – life-rafts for thoughts.
A flock of crows
all take off at once – they clatter – it’s musical;
1t’s an hour-long symphony
played in a single moment,
you hear it all but can’t separate the wing-beats.
My Scots grandmother (a natural born Celt),
would talk to me in her Highland tongue;
sounds so beautiful that my brain
would stop deciphering or even thinking.
I can’t now remember her wry wisdom,
not a thing,
I just recall the chanting-chimes.
Mozart must have leapt from his bed often.
I wonder did he stumble around lighting candles,
cursing the dark until he found his keyboard?
Did he lay his sleepy forehead on that forte-piano
willing himself to recall the bitsy songs
of Pipistrelle bats?
My head swings from the pillow.
If I could only reach that pencil,
but it has moved-on,
to a place where Gaelic grannies,
and jet-black crows wait
to enter some other dream.
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