john rutter plays this morning,
birds sing.

the dolls are mine, together, apart in pastel boxes,
worth a little bit. copied, light spaced.

photograph the photograph, to endear
as chinese whispers, to age and burn, to scrape,
to churn the memory, to mount on
good paper, yet delving find music, manuscript
to change my mind.

i met Reuben…………..

john rutter plays this morning.