The Royal Opera House
Where would opera be
and arms to die in?
But the passion,
with Ermonela Jaho
The hills are made invisible by an evening mist.
Against this a kettle of five hawks,
three red kites and two buzzards,
spiral in the diffused golden light,
unhurried, synchronised, perfect.
It is a moment of poetry,
of passion and perfection
that I am privileged to witness.
( an observation of my contemporaries, now I hate catching myself whistling)
Once the essence of romance,
now reduced to shadowing his wife
around charity shops and supermarkets,
his drawn cheeks constantly puckered with
that revolting suck, blow, tuneless
whistling that declares a man has entered his dotage,
devoid of the hope of passion
and surrendered to banality.
‘How does he love me?
With adoration, with fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love,
with sighs of fire.’