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.