Ode to joy

The oboe’s strident note is far too loud
For my small house; it needs a grander space.
The trumpet, too, and bombarde are endowed
With voices that would overwhelm this place.
I’ve no time for the bagpipes or spinet
The ocarina, cor anglais or lyre,
The tuba, tabor, fife or clarinet
(Recorders are fit only for the fire).
My heart belongs to that sweet silver sound
That rises like the larks’ song over all;
One moment high and shrill, then rich and round
As Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I am in thrall
To one alone, so offer this salute
To woodwind’s side-on miracle: the flute.

Another iambic pentameter sonnet, I’m afraid – please forgive me. My fault for coming home last night from an excellent community orchestra rehearsal and then watching Kenneth Branagh in Henry V.

4 thoughts on “Serenade

  1. This is great, please don’t apologize for writing iambic sonnets! Especially such good ones!
    I once was in tears from piano music that came through the open window of a house, more than music from a box could have moved me. There is nothing more beautiful as real music 🙂

    • Thank you, Ina – I think my flute-playing could probably reduce you to tears too, but not for the same reason!! But you’re right: real music played on real instruments is pure magic, and life would be a pale shadow without it.

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