for Rudolf Kempe

Here may he rest where cypress, cedar and the olive grow – and, sacred to Apollo, the sweet bay. Where robin, wren and blackbird flute arpeggios, ring-doves vercroo in oboe tones and sparrows chirp staccato plainsong to the day.

Here may he rest as music structures time: the held, collective silences of birds in afternoons, and music-making humans in his studio, as they find expression of a guiding human mind and spirit sharing notes assembled.

Here may he rest while daylight dims and every bird its compline sings till constellations holograph the inky sky, the ever-changing river, and lilting lights of Waterside become one with the Avon’s glide in gold and silver dressed.

Here may he rest.

© Hazell Hills