The native flute invokes a woodland scene
soft-warbled water, sifting sun through trees
high descant; low, soothing melodies
that move me subtly halfway into dream.
The sounds around me lull me into trance
the scenes to illustrate them build
behind my eyes, rise up with crafty skill
and bend the sounds to orchestrate their sense.
Which one came first? Before I know, I’m gone
the train of thought my will suggested — flown
Too brief for dream, the images all turn
like pages, sound and sight and touch as one
Fine workmanship - in fairy dust they’re drawn
They steal away my hours at night and dawn.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 21, 2011
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