Bah-low on your buccinal trumpet, ballooning cheeks
zipping stings to fingers and lips.
Frenzied squeaks and bursts of brass humming
a fragment melody. Muted pips.
Howl and sob long, tired sighs on your wet, reeded
horn to flood heaving lungs with the hollow drop-
sound of river barge moans clunking over weeded
depths. It leans with the hours, does our weep willow bop.
Ground,
splintered, smashed, simmered, crashing cymbal snap bones.
Their thuds pummeled deep in earthy backbeat sod, ploughed
in time to the tap, tap and brush of crunch-brittle snares
with scarecrow hands swept away,
like
tsssk-tsk-a-tsssk.
Oh
that a giant might thump
at his trembling chords
to the pace of my evening stroll.
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