Opus 27, no. 2


Summer mornings are for Mozart:
droplets of sun on the beaks
of sparrows.

The simple elegance of his melody
laced up with frill upon frill.
You think that’s easy? Try this!

Twisting my fingers around
the next variation
I hear him giggle.


Beethoven is warm in a winter room,
a brooding fire,
black-eyed clouds at the window.

Rock music, a friend once said.
Stroppy rhythm, wind against the wall.
Slamming the off-beat.

Music spills across the keys.
Dark swells of notes.
Oceans breaking over the page.


Evening, deep in a nocturne
watercolour wash
sustain pedal down.

Semi-quavers curled around strings
the damp felt touch
of pale light

following Chopin
through the heart
of the piano.


First published in Poetry NZ