If I Could Only Keep One Piece I’ve Written

There is something strangely revealing about being asked to choose just one piece of music from everything I have written. Not the most successful, not the most popular, not even the most impressive, but simply the one that stays.

For me, that piece is Agincourt.

It was written for the organ, and from the very beginning it felt different. There was a sense of direction, of movement, almost like stepping into a world that was already alive before I arrived. I did not feel like I was constructing it in the usual way. Instead, it felt as though I was uncovering something that already existed, waiting to be revealed.

What makes Agincourt stand out is not just the music itself, but the way it affects me every time I return to it. There is a weight to it, a kind of energy that I do not quite experience in the same way with anything else I have written. It has a sense of purpose and identity that feels complete in itself.

It is also adventurous. There is a feeling of journey throughout the piece, something unfolding, something progressing, always moving forward. That sense of momentum is something I value deeply, and in this piece it feels completely natural.

If everything else were to disappear, this is the one I would keep. Not because it is objectively better than the others, but because it resonates with me on a deeper level. It feels like a true reflection of something inside me as a composer.

When it comes to piano, the answer might be different. Gemini, written for piano four hands, would be a strong contender. It carries its own kind of energy and connection, and in many ways represents another side of my musical voice.

But if I had to choose just one piece overall, it would be Agincourt. It is the one that stays with me.