Flute Lesson

Played with real feeling,
my examiner wrote.

I envied cellists and pianists –
they didn’t require one breath to flow
from their lungs, up tremulous throat, to mouth,
through neatly-aligned embouchure to air.

In the school orchestra
I mimed high C.
I stopped my breath and hid beneath
the other flautists’ reach.

I wanted my notes to rise – meld
with that multifarious sound, over our heads,
filling the void like a murmuration.
But they lacked wings.

I learned you could mute yourself
and no one would even notice.
And art cannot be built
on feeling alone.