Sunday Bandstand

 The task to listen to music that had not been heard for a long time and write down anything that came to mind. From those thoughts I created this poem.

Sunday Bandstand

Sundays before I grew old, consisted of

Sound. The carillon of Cornets, crescendoing,

trilling, supported by Trombone, Flugel horn and Baritone.

Sundays before I grew old, convected air

kept me buoyant, floating on ringing melodies,

drifting amongst the perfume of mown grass and tarmac.

Sundays before I grew old, crooned the band

with echoes of summer snores accompanied by

the natter of needles, harmonising with insects humming.

Sundays before I grew old, clouds of sound

picked me up, caressed me, comforted me.

Rich silence intoned amongst the brilliant light.

Laughter, sandwich teas, melting ice-cream, soft green loam,

burbles of happiness, The Brass Band calls, taking me home.