I wrote this poem over twenty years ago now. It is one I return to and think, with no false modesty, ‘Do you know what, that’s really OK’. And it is. It may be my first unconscious move towards writing sonnets ten years later in its economy, argument and, to some extent its shape. I’ve made it my Poem of the Month again, not because it’s a work of genius but because it works. petals Remember the music we used to play? The instruments still hang on the wall, a trellis of brass roses or an exotic vine with bugle flowers. Like plumbing but not joined up, and silent now. And the lid of the piano is down. The tunes still prickle in my blood, and though blooming less each successive year, have k

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