By Many Roundelays, a sonnet
for Ludwig van Beethoven, and his Symphony no. 6
in F major, “La Pastorale”, III, Allegro, “Sturm”
Our Earth, from space, goes spinning, Queen of Spheres,
composing clouds in rounds of roundelays,
so thrilling them they rain allegro tears
all over greening fields by stormed-in bays.
As stallions madly wing on lightning hooves,
they beat the Seven Seas, and break the calm.
They race to hem the hale moon in, that moves
their fears to tear us from our smug aplomb.
Our prayers are vain! They’ll never acquiesce
in any urge to quell our fears of gales,
our foibles sins to them, the stallionesque!
For who can take to heart their stunning tales?
If they run mad, though I may be God’s fool,
would poets foam for them where full moons rule?
Richard Vallance, © 2013
You must be logged in to post a comment.