Southern Pacific Review Editorial Services

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Falconar S Flautist

by
Cathy Bryant 

I heard it in the night, abroad

- a single ringing note, purer

than the usual breathy lisp of flutes.

It was a leaping new music,

a clapperless yet sounding bell,

direct from the soul of Apollo.

 
I imagined the flautist, an exotic bird,

fragrant with peach and lime feathers

forming the most luxurious tassels and trains;

or a nightingale, only brighter,

singing in shimmering ultramarine.

 

At dawn, as the mists took unhurried leave

and the trees began to steam in the sun,

I saw the flautist: a tiny frog

the size of my thumbnail

- a scrap of jade - a little living leaf.

 

I knew that this was better than the bird,

that here was <em>show not tell</em>.

I laughed aloud as that thought blew in.

The frog ignored me, playing on

until she had raised the whole of the sun.

 

<em>(based on an incident from A.E.I. Falconar’s ‘Gardens of Meditation’)</em>

 

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