Reeling from the hall
I am the worse for music.
Never a note
Of all that knitted harmony
Can I recall.
Yet two days later
Into my waking mind
There springs,
Intact, immediate, and unasked,
A passage from the strings.
Why has it lain
These six and thirty hours,
Tunnelling, mole–like
In the warrens
Of the brain?
© The Estate of Dorothy Cowlin 1991–2021. All rights reserved.