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.
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