Friend of a friend of a friend of a client,
she, clarinetist, conversed in a pliant
and pleasant and perfectly pretty comport,
precisely the sort for whom valour, one thought,
should stand on the frail heart, sure-footed, defiant.
Flesh hesitates but the longing is itching,
demanding of action, encouraging ditching
decorum in favour of seizing the day,
for Plenty lies not in the lap of Delay.
Be heartened, my heart, by those eyes so bewitching.
And so, the faint heart, of a sudden freewheeling,
blurting, it asked if it might be appealing
to hear Shostakovich tomorrow - a question
flirting with hope that her measured digestion
might see, in my eyes, how I asked it with feeling.
Flattered, I think, and declining politely,
awkward, she smiled and so kindly, so brightly,
my compliment came back with profit, reflecting
from glances I fancied were interconnecting
which I'll recollect in the months ahead, nightly.
Leningrad Symphony, fiery and frantic,
majestic, ironic, heroic, gigantic.
Words often hush to let music persuade
and this was for love, but no love serenade;
singing to millions, though hardly romantic.
Now look at me! I can't hide in a thicket!
This from a wag yesterday at the cricket
as I ambled in, ashen-shirted, unwived,
Jislaaik mate! I see the new sight screen's arrived.
No, mine's not exactly a girl's hottest ticket.
The difference a day makes is always amazing:
Monday's finesse after Sunday's foul phrasing:
a bluff, boorish springbok, ill-mannered at Lords
to a fine London female, familiar with chords,
whose eloquent eyes were created for praising.
The Prom finished, thence down to Surrey with client:
(on me he is candid as well as reliant).
No, she's not married but there is a man.
And thus into silence our journey began
which ended alone at the home of the giant.
I did not intend this to be a sob-story.
I see now it was a bit Kensington Gorey
but please, your compassion should temper its force
unless you're a beautiful woman, of course,
in which case, play on, my viola d'amore!