Beethoven Ends

Amber raisins,
those shrivelled skins
like ancient palms,
are far more loud
than the silence now.
My life-line stretched
to another star
following that final bar.


For all I know
the gull up high
may ride the tide
we call the airwaves.

A movement never heard
by Beethoven or bird
beats upon the shore
of 92.4.

Where I pocket storms,
an orchestra performs;
the lightning confined
to galvanise the mind:

and I have glimpses,
when all around is dark,
of the rising sun
the Maestro bravely won.

So long ago,
he turned some mighty dial
so we could hear
the joy that’s ever near.