He watches starlings darkening the sky in a flocking balletic curve
and with two fingers to his lips sends them his gentle benison.
She seated naked at her cello sends chords across the room
that brush his shoulders and shake the somnolence of his stance.
Without a sound the black cloud plummets to its roost, like death
there is no premonition only voids to fill and tears to shed.
As curtains draw, her notes too will sink to low esteem in melancholy
pale thighs embrace spruce shoulders and the languorous bow moans.
© Graham Sherwood 12/2012
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