Tuesday, May 31, 2011

The Flute Player

On the sharp ridge joining
The sacred and profane,
Our favorite secret place,
We caught the gauzy clouds
Of a gaudy sunset
And would have been content

With that grandeur alone,
Except that evening winds
Decided to grace us
With an extra magic
We'd never known before.
What was that faint music?

Keening, rhythmic, sweet-toned,
But not quite melodic
And vaguely percussive,
It circled the compass,
Coming from one canyon
First, then the opposite.

We couldn't locate it,
Shifting with the slant light,
So that we'd pause and tilt
And peer this way or that.
Someone's campsite? A car
Down River Road? Hikers?

It sounded like a flute,
The tune it carried was
Something repetitive,
Plaintive, introspective.
It rose from nowhere,
Died away on the air

And then returned again,
Slightly altered, elsewhere.
Listening, leaning in
To cup it from silence,
Was to hear the double
Meaning of enchantment.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.