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 Bach’s suites from aged wood,
pushed and pulled Monsieur’s tears
as the air beat desperately.
This was your pilgrimage,
and our redemption.