The fourth ceremony, "Raphael."
The little man lies drowsing, curled up under white hangings
when a voice of gentlest thunder charges
the expectant atmosphere.
It is the twinkling Lord of Earth.
Hear, hear.
Yes, babe, today your name you'll hear
from your old grandfather Clay.
Yes, yes, long dear, long doubting Thomas.
Lend an ear and with a kiss I whisper in it Tom.
DJ, that's his new name.
So it would seem the cast of the next Rake assembling?
They work fast.
Now with your strong little foot a kick.
Sound number two, down through live caves and tunnels
her cry comes to you.
The tiny figure winces at the cry
and squeezes its face shut despairingly.
Now 4/5 babe, your last but one gift, receive from me this gun.
Eyes open.
Fingers curl about the flute, a blowgun, witty Raphael.
To shoot music into the world's ears from your heart.
Remember your name, Tom, and start.
Again, the kick, the mother's cry.
One glance from Raphael and the portrait is no more.
A pinch of dry, used color dusts the floor.
Faint sanguine plots the newly primed expanse.
Dust.
Dust to dust.
Go, go.
And, gravely, he goes also.
Black out in the nursery.
The next day, midday heat.
A growing restlessness pervades the household,
each room stuffy, small.
JM seeks out the keyboard, Mozart falling open to K. 576,
twice attempts the opening movement's closing
bars, a glint with sweet shifts of nuance and pace,
stars in a brook.
DJ drifting downstairs knows it's too soon but has this
funny feeling that if we started now..
JM,
Yes, yes.
Out with Board and cup, which in a trice--