We strolled through the park one lovely summer day and happened upon a very talented musician. His music was stimulating, its melody emitted a variety of moods. As I listened I was held in a long belaboured pause wondering who the musician was nodding to me in silent greeting. He played so beautifully with a very solemn, yet cleverly precise enunciation that lent such gravity to the music's expression. It was as if he were positioning his bow atop surfaces of multi-layered complexities and yet was capable of voicing a local language that portrayed the commonplace and all its contingencies. I wanted so much to retain something of the music's purity so as to describe it in a visceral language of poetry. To this day I remain curious as to how the incredibly gifted musician played such a perfect cascade of melodies that continue to haunt my ears, my mind, my heart.
Staring into myself this morning, the images begin their resurfacing and I feel anchored to that particular moment of memory. Its recollection sends me on a search for other remembered moments, like those that come in dreams. Those brief stretches of time that are weighted with a sense of mystery and meaning – all familiar and all mine. This reminiscing lasted as long as any dream, linking times tenderness to the light and I began to hear the music once again. It seemed to come to me a little louder with a clear and buoyant fluency. In receiving its echo, I began to think that perhaps the poem just might present itself, becoming a testament to my light-footed passage through that particular time. Daily, I yearn for its return.
