“The sky was English
sky that day:
A patchwork stitched
from drizzled grey.”
With nothing else to do, we spent
all day riding different sound waves.
We started on a single note,
a C, to see if C-waves were
the same, in any way, as sea-waves.
They weren’t. We braved a
leitmotif
and used it like a rollercoaster.
We surfed on awkward intervals:
augmented fifth; diminished fourth;
precipitously-balanced seventh.
Then, quite exhausted by the speed,
a silent wave of avant-gard
allowed us all to catch our thoughts.
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