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.
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