From Four French Horns by Jenny Powell-Chalmers

Southern Woman

I'm not the perfect Southern Woman
but by god I'm getting close.
Well, it's not that I can wrestle
a ram or bang in a straight fence post,
but my heart's in those hills
where merinos run
and the city where Speight's
is next to none.

The old man wouldn't know Eden Park
and he's never sailed a yacht,
but he's been to the Brook for years
to watch the rugby and the cricket.
His lunch is a Peter Sellers pie
and there's cans of gold in his pocket.

Down here in the South we dress
with style, it's denim
and swannis and dryzabone
coats and boots for the extra mile.
And I'm fussy about bras
I buy black lace and satin
for the fence at Cadrona,
our statement of fashion.

I can't open a bottle with teeth,
my dog whistle can't last for long,
though I'd probably stack up bales of hay
and sing the Southern Man song.
But when it comes to the crunch
despite all of our plans,
when you look at it, all said and done,

it's a hard road finding the perfect man.

E Flat

Every evening I play
Mozart's horn concerto
in E major to a packed
hall they queue
right down the drive
waiting for a ticket.
There are the usual
first time concert goers
who clap between movements
but after the finale, well,
the applause is deafening.

Inside they wonder
why I keep going back
to the hall. They don't know
I play concerts to a full
house or that I have
the best orchestras in
the world to accompany
me; St Martin-in-the-Fields,
Concerto Amsterdam
and Wiener Symphoniker.

The rehearsal schedule
is tough. Sometimes I wonder
why I keep going
but the reviews they
never read are just

©Jenny Powell-Chalmers