For the dverse prompt.
From the rolling red deeps
of fierce Dies irae,
purple splendour of Lacrimosa,
running light and sharp as hoarfrost
along the branch, the threaded pearls
of the Queen of the Night,
I leave behind the booming oceans
to walk beneath
the bending boughs of oboes
and the clarinet pipings of the thrush,
gathering the careless scattered notes,
red and gold, of finches a final bird salvo,
before the day fades
into the blue misted violins
of the setting sun.