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| Bandy |
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In the spectral hut where
boys blew bugles,
Bandy’s ghost sits like a kestrel hawk,
sharp eyes piercing
Through every youthful pretext, watching
Pursed lips playing F A C E and
E G B D F, learning Treble Clef
What goes in spaces, what sits on the lines.
His pecking pointing sharp baton weaves air
He might as well be playing Albert Hall
As there forever in a draughty old shed
Perched on windy Deeside at his life's end
Yet he waves his wand like Paganini
Culls from the brains of boys romantic dreams
Of massed brass music of a great Empire.
Bandy was the kind of man you'd need on board
Ready to play 'Nearer my God to Thee'
Lead others in his seeking of the truth. |
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