Runner-up in Mslexia’s Women’s Poetry
judge - Jo Shapcott, published in
Maybe that’s his father with the
up under the nose of a woman who averts her
sighs and mouths above the violin, ‘He should
be in school.’
‘Fool. Fuck you. This boy knows already how to
Aged five or younger, Wolfgang could compose
in different keys.
Trees shivered off their snow. Salzburg echoed
to his chords.
Swords clattered to the floor. Wooden tops
Sound was every new thing. Leopold praised and
Sleeping in a trailer, out of town, by the
steeled by tracks, this boy dreams in minims,
savours the black leaping notes that climb the
Cars murmur nursery rhythms in his head,
time with some vague remembered fingering.
bitch,’ his step-father shouts out to the
night’s halved moon.
Soon a requiem slow dances its way into the
winds the opening of train doors into the