Even now, I can recall 

the hair-stirring, scalp-prickling zephyr rise  

and fall 

of your incomparable  

French horn.

Half-French you were, too

all Raphaelesque in your dark-eyed beauty,  

skin so fair, 

lips permanently bruised  

and slightly parted.

Wet tongue tip 

would occasionally cat-like protrude, 

unconsciously sensual 

as if in thoughts you practised tune 

as I'm sure  

you did.

You were musical,  

while I  

was just some scruffy kid  

who loved all things that soared and swelled,

not yet transformed and utterly bemused  

by... 

well, everything.

Then I 

beheld you.

I saw you distracted, chew  

ripe bottom lip and thought  

what would it be like  

to be consumed  

by someone as beautiful, as talented  

as you.

But I shook off  

all that unnerving, unravelling disturbance  

as pup shakes off unexpected drenching,  

screwed sticking point 

to challenging new score - The Gates of Kiev.

Ah, but every downstroke of bow 

and every clear flight of sound was transmuted 

by your sitting

near.

When first kiss did finally  

come  

I thought - No, that's not it,  

no, no,  

not at all, no  

and could have wept, for it wasn't

you.