For months Mozart has been so crucial I haven’t played him.
The winds, filibustering the house, have heard
the chimney crackle and the paint strain
while the old obsessions went ignored. What was the point?
One evening I flipped the LP of the A major (K.488)
and the slow movement lacerated my defences
all over again. I squinted beyond the buddleia
on the fenceline and thought I could discern vast citadels
circling the horizon, and it was almost a joy
that swept its andante through the sad molecules
of my imaginings – but just then
a magpie alighted on the lawn, dragging a shadow
behind it as the sky turned a molten gold and a storm
broke from the west. The disc had ended
(I had no recollection of having heard the rondo finale)
and I sprang to the phone, jangling churlishly
to tell me you were gone. Music is like that:
it knows. It brought to mind what you had shown me
on the Baltic coast under the lighthouse:
twirling a miniature sailboat of souvenir amber
between thumb and forefinger, you pointed to the tower
and the encircling gulls and ‘Look at them,’ you said.
‘They love the lighthouse. It teaches them the humility of flight.’

 

 

CONTENTS: MARCH 2011