Saturday, 20 October 2012



One wonders when they are a parent, and money is short, whether it is worth the effort of getting a child something they would really like.



For Anita

In the winter light
she stands outlined
against the window,
an anonymous shadow
slightly swaying
to the mellow tones
of her clarinet
– in the room
the music is everything.
How many years,
how many rooms,
has she stood just so
her inner breath releasing
multiple feelings
through the voice
of her clarinet.
She half-remembers
rejecting: the piano
as being too happy,
the flute, as too wistful
for what might have been,
also the sadness of strings
pretending at happiness
but forgotten the details
how this clarinet arrived
into her welfare family
- only of the ecstasy
of its music finding her
thirty years ago.
After the clarinet player
leaves the darkening room
the melodies linger
on the air, on the walls,
like a fine patina of perfume.


  1. Your poem is beautiful Lois. Haunting, that is how I want to describe the feeling it gave me.


  2. Thank you :)) and haunting is what I was exactly what I was hoping for. Unfortunately the painting I wanted to include would not load. Must go back and read Baz's instructions.