Listening  to  Bix


The cornet set aside,  his fingers flow across the keys.
The power is  there,  but underlies  the soft caress
of the notes that top and tail in syncopated  joy
while I wait to hear the ivory resolution
of a melody that defies a discrete ending
and leaves me in a mist of unresolved pleasure.

Then the cornet is retrieved,  its power soars ,
taking  first  solo  as  its  pride of  place.
It sets its mark, almost solid, on the air
and the room trembles with its evocation
of a lust  for  life  in the midst of blues despair
restated passionately in a last  reprise.

One side of an old recording;  then the other.

I am transported back to the carefree days  
of studenthood's common room relaxation
with its leisurely enjoyment of music and magazines,
and the  quiet companionship of fellow listeners.

The present music ends and sixty years have passed   
in not much more than six swift minutes.

Youth fades, departs,  and the regrets of age descend.