by Steve Tanham
Harlequin solstice
St John Kin
A picture in the fading sun
A race of fingers, digits
Of solstice long earned
Short departed
➰
How little
How sadly
You are understood
Your music the struggle
Of madness
Made harmony
➰
Until this moment
When kings detach your strings
When single song
Descends
Towards the dark arms
But brighter eyes
Of St Stephen
➰
©Stephen Tanham
Poignant and lovely writing, Stuart. It leaves me with a feeling of part of the world silently leaving like the last note in a symphony.
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Sorry I got my names mixed up, Steve. It is a lovely poem – something very lilting like a soft breeze crossing the sky.
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Its Steve, Anne. Thank you. That was what I hoped it would convey: the poignancy of its climax and departure; the inevitable cycle which gives its brevity inner meaning x
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