The violinist

I remember his broad hands
         the hands of a musician
of a violinist in love
         with his instrument
: he would converse with it
         sometimes silently
teasing the notes
         from the taut catgut
and I remember
         how his face would contort
and suddenly relax
         then tighten again
as he advanced
         through the score
onwards on a journey marked
         by notes on a stave
a roller-coaster walk
         on the wild side
his lips tightly pursed
         and his deep blue eyes
in a different world
         or on a different plane
a different dimension
         from which he would retrieve
such melody and passion
         that the air was transformed
into wave upon wave
         of transfixing beauty

I remember his hands
         the broad fingers
that nimbly danced on the neck
         the shudders and the long
sweep of the bow
         back and forth
coaxing the lacquered body
         to release its vibrant breath

and I remember his impish smile
         which taught me
that music is ageless
         as is love as is passion
and that no one owns
         these things or these emotions
that they possess us
         that they lift us up
so that we are transfigured
         our lives illuminated
by the power of creation

After all is that not the essence
         of love and art to create
to make something new
         to nourish our lives
and renew the face of the earth ?

John Lyons