Violin bows

grow

like firm, fresh shoots in Spring

in a BBC montage.

Out of the earthy orchestra they

change their minds,

try,

retreat,

repeat, afraid,

afraid of the wind in the wood,

that imposing bassoon.

When lit drops like diamonds

or headswept stars

cascade to,

as I collide,

the ground

(and me)

in golden glory like he told,

there is like to be

(at once as wet as when we met)

the sunset.