The Whisper Of The Muse Poem by Mark Heathcote

With his violin bow in hand, the man plays,
then stops and listens to his whispering muse.
Where others were entranced, he breaks and weighs,
His face, solemn in thought, was much less enthused.
Resembling a wilting flower head, drooped
The world looks like a man. Who-has-been duped?

He's old, and he has passed this way before.
He knows off by heart the music in his soul-
has sealed inside, and like a green Hellebore
In the wintertime, his head will rise and roll.
And the blood of Christ, a clap of thunder
makes all bolt up straight in awe and wonder.