Murray andante

The night fills with Bach

with the clear cold

a gas fire doesn’t touch

outside rattle of a skateboard

not gelling with the violin

skateboard guy, I’ve seen him before

rolls back towards Gilbert Street

the slow movement begins

it’s not quite a baroque town

the grids almost classical

but the Bach andante claims it

now the outside softens

again giving access somehow

to measure, of steady streets

lack of blue shadow and a

width of days along with my

steady lostness in a bowl

of clarity, while above my eyes

the green and grey hills

need to stretch my thought

and rain suddenly hits the roof

then stops, quick, all this water

that doesn’t go to rivers

that doesn’t cease the drought

nor bring me back to

a mind that accompanied me

once through funky allegros

and andantes and other

more humid songs

unlike the passing of trams at

Pirie Street, as lawyers progress

to sandstone courts where

cameras linger, sensations of the local

a city’s petty crimes

well, that’s cross continental

like the sad river, as even

the blind hours remind me

killed state by state, classical neglect

not even this rain nor

this music allays.

Jill Jones