The brass band wears black arm bands
Now Ted is gone.
His lungs survived years down the pit,
He was a master of the
Piston valve but now his trumpet lies
Idle, its finger buttons at rest
The mouthpiece cold, quite free from spittle.
The air that made Ted's lips vibrate is gone,
No more the change of lip tension that varied
His vibrations giving notes of different pitch, the
Valves diverting the breath to extend his range.
When Ted's wind ran out
The ventilator, a kind of trumpet in reverse
Blew air the other way for a while but
Though not short of valves,
There was little musical about it.