Cello

Cello Serenade

In the dimming light of a Westminster hall
the cello sighs—its pearled, bronze‑bright throat
casting a deep, mellow hue like London fog on a rainy day,
and every note that lingers in the air is an old love‑letter
sent from the bow’s tip, feathered in measure and grace.

Its body, a darkly carved bowl, echoes the hush of a country church,
while the f‑holes breathe out a muted hymn through pageant summer.
When the left hand presses the diadèle, the string itself shivers—
pizzicato crickets, a gentle finger‑snap against the silence.

Across the stage, a player swallows the Southern accent of rhythm,
bow striking, a subtle warble between coda and tutti.
The instrument’s tone rises like the clifftop wind over Bath’s stones,
reminding us of Venetian canals and the sound of war–racing trains.

Thus, the cello stands – a quiet, sturdy companion on the grand programme,
its voice a tender, living colour that turns stone into song.
In every bow‑stroke, we hear Britain’s own heart—sonorous and warm—
that turns an ordinary moment into a living, verdant refrain.