Delius & Fenby

Always toward sunset Delius grew

restless and uneasy in his carriage

chair, raving at the pain in his legs,

flicking his long tapering fingers

as though stating a theme on the air.

His proud head, pale as marble,

began to wobble no matter the effort

to hold it still. He demanded a thick

rug for warmth. He demanded a thin rug

for comfort, then demanded that no

rug touch him, all the time wanting

me to read one more story aloud

like a child refusing to go to bed.

Delius required that everything

be just so. His bean and barley

soup must be salted in the pot

and served piping hot. No rattling

cups or clattering spoons at table,

where chitchat lashed him to fury.

After dinner, one cigar and a slow

push up the Marlotte road in silence,

when even the neighbor's great Alsatians

walked hushed beside us. Saturdays

we could play only Sir Thomas Beecham’s

records of Delius on the gramophone

in the quiet of his music room.

One morning in the faded garden

where Delius sat beneath the elder

tree, I could see that he was angry

with me. Tossing his head from side

to side, he champed and glared

toward the rising sun, clearing

his throat fortissimo. At night

a melody had come on the verge

of sleep, making him weep to be

hearing new music leap in his mind

again. But I overslept beneath

the full-sized face of mad Strindberg

by Munch, dreaming myself south

to Paris amidst a wild summer storm,

surrounded by young friends in good

health, rain playing a sudden cadenza

on the swollen Somme, and the thunder

in E-Flat. I wanted tea.