No remedy for sleep, this
knitting and parting of hands
across the keys, this wrestling
with trills and mordents, fingers
caught in the flickering webs
of counterpoint, the endless
landscapes of G as we gigue
and joke our way through the joy,
the gyrations, and the grand
monotony. To what end
are we moving in this world
but our own reprise, better
and sweeter for the tempering
of labour and our love?
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Second Nature: James Lindesay’s Poetry 