Brass Band

(On the 75th anniversary of Klaksvíkar Hornorkestur)

Now the outfields erupt
with a green so uproarious
that even the marsh marigolds
must scream to be heard,
though some islanders are still silent,
coated black, ready for a funeral,
their hearts churched and engraved
with inherited memories.

But the plumage of tourists gleams loudly,
waterproof and fluorescent,
as, come the flood,
they too might need to be saved,
while football fans stand proud
on chairs for a communal song,
blue, bloated, ecstatic,
amplified by the volume of drink.

The brass band joins this town
together in unholy matrimony.
It serenades new ships,
launches birthdays,
raises flags and Christmas trees,
buries the dead;
it hymns from the red book,
marches from the black book.

This evening the cornets flourish
after rain, and euphoniums bloom.
Soon the sun will dip behind Kunoy,
muting the metallic air.
The mayor’s speech will drift by,
and in the bass trombonist’s pram
a baby will doze, and dream
of flying a solo flugelhorn.