There, among dust-mote galaxies

Where reflected light

From half-closed blinds lands,

Highlighting the gentle dance

Of fairies and other wild imaginings,

A Moonlight Sonata

Modulating the mood

With the gentle persuasion

Of a lullaby,

There, above the fog of reminiscence

When cigarettes were sophisticated,

Elegantly drawn,

Women wore stockings and suspenders

In the afternoon,

There, in the space between the edge of reason

And the expectation of a shift in perception,

Where shadows hide in corners

Waiting for a seed change, a new moment to arrive,

That is where the man sits,

In a charcoal suit

Sinking deeply into the folds of a dark sofa.

Relaxed or not,

His head seems to float in the air,

Surrounded by a halo of novas,

Nodding in time to the rise and fall

Beethoven, a natural accompaniment

To the afternoon

The slow passing, in keeping with his mood

The heavy velvet curtains,

On either side of the ancient

Floor-to-ceiling casement windows

The paint on the iron frames peeling,

Sag beneath the weight of his sadness

Crushing the air out of the room,

Nothing is as it once was

But the music brings its own sense of occasion.

He moves his hands

In a conductor’s arc

The air sparkles

As the displaced motes jostle for position

Before resuming their gentle manoeuvering.

He has a decanter on a silver salver

From which he pours a drink

And from time to time, sips,

As the day slips slowly by.

The baroque clock on the mantlepiece marks the passing

With a precise tick tock

That barely interferes with his enjoyment

Of the piece

And in his mind's eye

He and she are dancing.

Nothing more will come of this

It is a digression and it will be broken when the children call

As they surely will, one day soon

For the love of their madness, larks and japes

In the before times

Are all that keep him present in the world,

Other than Beethoven

And the chivvying of the housekeeper.