The Whisper Of The Muse

With his violin bow in hand, the man plays
Then stops, listens to his whispering muse.
Where others were entranced, he breaks and weighs.
His face solemn in thought; much less enthuse
Resembling a wilting flower head drooped
For the world looks a man who has been, duped.

He's old, and he has passed this way before,
He knows off by heart, the music his soul-
Has sealed inside, and like green Hellebore
In winter time, his head will rise and roll
And the blood of Christ, a clap of thunder
Makes all bolt up straight in awe, and wonder.

by Mark Heathcote

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