I thought I saw you coming up the hill todaybut I did not hear you.It was the iron gate making music with the wind:a full triad of notes and pheasants,pheasants screeching and trying to fly,strumming the tops of corn,percussive beats…

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Cello Pilgrimage

for Orlando Jopling. Dead-end skies clouded the Resurrection laying in leaded lights. Inside, candle lights: the cellist raised his bow and scored the lines. Cut through complacency, plucked Barber’s vision through Spanish streets and Cornish seas. Sound lapped stone, sucked…

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