Composers that were once famous
Clutter the sky with old manuscripts.
Throwing away unfinished symphonies
And spilling ink onto the Earth.
The clouds are giant rubbish bins
For those who no longer live on the ground.
In their early days, their minds were high
Above the living. Now their spirits are there too.
The deep blue of the sea is as it is from
Spillages, ink-wells too full.
Birds` feathers become quills, and their calls,
Songs with great melodies.
The whispering of the wind on a dark and
Blustery night is their voices, when they occasionally
Hold concerts for the other inhabitants of
Heaven.
FIRE 22, p 14; Sophia Vaughan-Hodkinson