Pascal Ansell

Shell of a man, the mouth catches
A common cold, nasal husks. Organ Morgan’s
Fingers delight in Palestrina, and ears
Seldom hear dear mother’s lips screaming.

There it is. Pink and mainly grey.

Morgan, without the Organ, speaks a
Love of Bach. “Palestriiiiina” with rolled r
And wide I, he waits for tea and displays
Mental staves on the table, hands raised & ready.
Skew-eyed, he sits on the piano stool,
Rocks in organ euphoria amongst
Rainwash Wales tittering along.

Is Morgan’s Organ becoming Bach?
Choral voices Palestrina?
Knows, knows,
Mental states on black & white,
Duple tone archaic staves.
Whose causal connection in
The deep G chord? Eardrums purr in appreciation,
Misty enigma, Cartesian mystery.

Close to death. Dear Morgan’s
Slapped back – pewed into childhood church,
Jumped midway through vespers. It was then
That Palestrina hatched neatly for years.
Thirty-eight in total; it’s whisky that did it,
That and his love for full cream, roll-ups and red meat.

In the grave, under sods and heavily weighed by absence,
Does an organ amid Morgan plan a Palestrina mass?

Most mourners warm themselves, resolving that Morgan’s
Habits, hair, his stare,
His gait, chuckle, and manic drinking habits
Will froth heavenwards, unfathomable
(along with his Welsh).

Sun sagging and the priest sighs, questions his profession,
And at the wake, thinks about
Retreating to Rheims,
But late in the day it seems.