Requiem for a Choirmaster (For Ed and Bert)
by Carol Coffee Reposa

The shades of his fingers still flit
Over keyboards, pull all the right stops
Of the Aeolian Skinner
That once filled the nave
With thunder and sun.
Pedals still seem to move
At the touch of his feet.

In his prime, he could blow it out.
I almost hear Widor and Mozart
Floating toward the vaults, a hundred voices
Belting out "God's Trombones."
They spiral into darkened space,
Curl around stained glass like vines
To seek the life outside.

Hymns settle on the altar
In musty corners
Of the chancel
On the pulpit
Under pews.
They never will leave,
While a few miles beyond

At his home
He finishes an arrangement
Of "It Is Well with My Soul,"
Leaves his piano
To take his dogs for a walk.
They rise up from their comfortable rug
And follow him, wherever he goes.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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