Benjamin Britten strode out

one crisp spring morning to a crowd of seagulls;

North Sea clouds parted

to let the sun through. 

 

This was his muse, his choir,

a thin gruel of music in his head

preparing for release. 

 

Harps and the voices of boys split infinity

over the shingle.

He worried about the cause,

the great horizon of gestation held tight

in an unaccepted menopause.