​​Above the ​geology of the infinite
A pale, thread-like sound
Etches its grave disquiet:
A lone violin winds its way
Helix like through a human sigh.
 
Vigil
Night music
As the answering cello
Makes lugubrious sense
Of a threatened cry.
 
Here are soft voices
Communing in the dark.
Viola, voice of the composer
Mourns, at last, the countless dead
 
Then, break offs, suddenly
As if overheard
By those public guardians
Who heckle wayward thoughts.
 
 
Secret words
Coded and confessional
Conceive a message from the past:
The subversive sits
Chain-smoking
His molten fingers hovering above the keyboard.
 
The anti-hero with the boyish smile
His thick glasses stained and cracked
Invokes a bitter testament:
Four players stretched tight
Dig into fretful memories
And hold aloft the naked chill of survival.
 
 

 
Gar Jones – April 2011
​

---