0153 Eine Kleine Morgenmusik Poem by Michael Shepherd

Dawn entered on time. The warning flash
of lightning like a conductor’s upraised baton
demanding thunder’s drumroll
echoing round the mountains. Salzburg
was never so musical. In his garden
a pulsatilla flinched with joy. Beneath
his fast pen, music wrote itself. In this house,
the waterpipes made music with the cistern,
doors made harmony with window catches; wet shoes
with wooden chairs scraped back. Mathematics
scrawled on walls sang number.
Piano lessons were from youth to age,
no need of cane for errant fingers. Yet
too many masters still to come; for him
never a false chord save in life.