Frosty morning, azure skies,
Icy pavement; cars go by.
Strolling past the sludgy streets,
The strains of Wagner guide my feet,
To march unto a thunderous beat.
Can't you see it in my eyes?
I am not present in your world.
My mind strolls down through corridors
Where trumpets bid my spirit rise,
And trombones belch infernal wrath,
All foes to scatter from my path.
Horns groan out my sullen angst,
The strings, swirling tempests in leaden sky,
The shrieking woodwinds loose their cry.
A moment's racing chill which numbs
Then stills the roaring kettle-drums.
Into my home I make my way,
To live another troubled day.
George Chadderdon © 1991