hands open
hands close
hands give expression to the soul
and if I lose the use of mine
what value then will be my life
so I shall play arpeggios while I can
broken chords
like spokes upon a wheel
none of these notes mean a single thing
but bring me joy
if temporary
all things are temporary
except for one
mountain breath
and I find the lost valley
yellow
the tiny alpine flower
where I first heard
the astonishing singer
the unlocatable sorrows of the heart
cannot be mapped
but may be glimpsed through art –
in colours that in striking ways combine
in music or words that mysteriously
lilt or chime
in no sense do these explicitly impart
significance but make you start
feel elevated – touch – jar
the unlocatable sorrows of the heart
else ask the wind the fire the sea
only don’t ask me
Swans in the air this morning
over the ridge,
brought to mind the myth
of the old man of the forest
who scanned the skies for cranes
and wild geese,
translated the language of the trees
and mountains into symphonies
that set the mind on fire
when I was young enough
to believe that
a swan could be a mystical being,
or a man could be reborn.
Oh, for such belief now.
Swans in the air this morning,
anyhow.
And music to transform the day.
