I hear it in his song, as I perform;
With expectation, I anticipate
What challenge wrought that worthy hands conflate.
What fingers, nimble, delicate, and warm,
What mastery was he seeking to transform?
I hear him call, with each I recreate,
And call again with Phrygian passion. Great,
I hear him call, as doth a raging storm.
I hear it in the sadness and the joy,
As in capriciousness, or wayward games;
I hear it gravely serious, then coy;
In every moment, hear how it proclaims.
The instant when the Andaluz appears,
I hear it, sweet as sin, across the years.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
David Emeron: Sonnets 