Joey Connolly

Two Poems

The Big House

Amateur musicians join me unexpectedly so
a kind of music I know nothing about –
baroque or symphonic, or chamber – plays,
in slow notes, flat with the smell of instant coffee,
and dry toast, and unmarked hardback books, across this

hangover of mine, couched in its now-useless hideout, which
overlooks the grand house’s grounds, across which flit
unknown birds, thrushes maybe – blue-tits, swallows –
like a display of emotion I shouldn’t think
I could put a name to it’s so joyful.

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