The Invisible Violin

If we are to discover what is in there and out there We must dare, dare to look under seeking skulls brace ourselves as a bridge between their empty eye-sockets. Spirit, that invisible violin, unmolested by thought must play a jig at a funeral. Time, the whistling tinker-man, must be set loose of his rags, allowed to paint the wind. The rattle of tin pots and kettles the rocking of your caravan are the tympanic chords, drum-drumming on a beach yet to be reached, unless like hermit crabs we leave our shells and burst out into travelling music.