When Mr An-thra-Cite is in town,
The air falls to its knees in praise.
The trees,
Lower their limbs,
Cover their leaves and
Avert their gaze,
As he takes to his stage.
Dressed in the finest of ebony silk,
He gleams resplendent.
Such stature, such panache,
So much elegance,
Not a hint of “flash”.
He is the maestro of the treetops,
Dusk’s dazzling Diva,
His notes can split clouds,
Pierce mountains, like
Hot knives though jelly,
And, with the touch of a feather,
Stop the universe in its tracks.
He is Sammy Davis Junior with wings;
There’s no one else in town,
When Mr An-Thra-Cite sings.
Missives & Musings 