JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

An alpine horn blown from a mountain centuries ago

conveys its fanfare echo to our ears

polished by a hundred thousand dawns of sun and glint

of plainsong, yodel, bugles, hymns and chants

 

From Inverness to Internet baroque has turned to rock

yet melodies as old as breezes billow through the years

while harps and wooden instruments pluck and hoot a rhythm

of kings and consorts, madrigals from throats of golden birds

 

As a finale on a platform, beard as wild as straw

the trumpet player clad in toga blows a blast of klaxon

and next to him a damsel’s fingers dance over a flute

both afterwards back in their jeans go home to rock and roll