Blakeney, moonlight

by Michael Shann

When the timpani, when the violins,
mine is one body among many
prone in the gallery.

Still as seals on a wet beach
in moonlight, waves of sound lap
at the exposed summer night.

We enter the music as we enter a sea,
wishing to be transformed
in some small, elemental way,

eyes-closed-drifting through all
the little plocks and plinks, knowing
the deep static on our skins.

When the silence,
when our immersion ends, we all stand
and clap our flippers like hands.