Each day an instrument plucked or blown on the wind from inherited depths. The agony of all that’s left. Echo of waves in the sweep of ink.

Monday. Turn of the violin. Whisper of shavings that brush on the floor. Gleam of sunlight in tune with the grain.

young girl’s eyes
as she follows the bow
lark rise

Tuesday. Flute  Bone. Run of small perforations that ripple her fingers.

busker’s notes spiral
in sync with snake coils
his empty bowl

Wednesday. Ancient conch. Hornblower’s lips embrace at the tip.

score of thousands
years before time
the past resounds

Thursday. Drum. Tightness of skin on the rim of the frame.

beat of his heart
to the pounding of fists.
distant sirens

Friday. A gap in the place where the piano one stood.

afloat from her dream
his settings of her poems
vibrations of silence

Diana Webb