There were those ambiguous faces!
Medieval masons had put them
in the ceiling of that ancient Abbey church.
We were amused, me and the children
that the faces those ancient men had hidden
from their masters were visible
in the big, uncouth modern mirror. And then
the light grew darker
with apparent approach of rain; and music
rose into the ancient height.
English, something I ought to know;
but what piece, what composer?
Just strings rehearsing
with a hint of English weather through the ages.
The rehearsal paused. I summoned
the strength to ask politely just what
were they were playing? ‘Finzi,
‘The clarinet concerto.’ In the absence
of that instrument I raised
a polite eyebrow, and was told
‘We are waiting for the soloist.’
Odd, of course it was odd! But
the whole thing went with
the Native light of that day
in that place for peaceable monks,
which the great warrior Athelstan had provided,
the first realm maker of England.
Fred Beake