Dead Beat

I used to play the air guitar, the bass,

But up here an audience is out of place

Except to white Dementers, sucking soul,

Who wrap your fade out in their polar stole.

Down in the depths, the deeper notes are chilled

And there my blubber run, uniquely skilled

For fluent passages and Arctic riffs, Enchants the dark eyed fish as parting gifts.

While my acoustic sonar knows no bounds

My instincts recently have picked out sounds,

River mouth blues, trip the light fantastic

Myriad krill notes in micro-plastic.

To keep my musical career alive

I think I’ll play with them, so I can thrive.

The profound harmonies of the pristine polar seas are being disrupted, at the very bottom of the food chain, crashing into health from a quiet start, like Ravel’s Bolero.

Bring on the new world stage act, live!

Image Laurent Baheux.

Sonnet Adam Leather 13 November 2018