Holiday

Amateur musicians join me unexpectedly so
a kind of music I know nothing about –
baroque, symphonic, chamber? – plays
in notes flat with the smell of coffee
and dry toast, and hardback books, in this

supposed to be quiet for a hangover room, which
overlooks the grand-house’s grounds, across which flit
nameless birds, thrushes maybe – blue-tits, swallows –
like a display of emotion I shouldn’t think

I could put a name to it’s so joyful.

Joey Connolly-Wright